


Call Me Back Again

by Mademoiselle_Kitty



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Humor, John is shameless, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 18:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 66,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10645329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mademoiselle_Kitty/pseuds/Mademoiselle_Kitty
Summary: John works as a waiter in a restaurant. One day, a tall, dark, handsome stranger walks in and John falls head over heels. Problem is, the man he fancies is on a date. With a girl...UNOFFICIAL MCLENNON BIG BANG ENTRY





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a modern day AU...

Someday soon, John thought, he'd have no choice but to commit homicide. And he'd get away with it too because clearly, not a single judge in the world would blame him for strangling Harrison with the power cord of the amplifier the insufferable git just plugged in. After some feedback, which in and of itself was like nails on a chalkboard, the familiar arpeggiated chords he'd been listening to for days on end started to blare through the flat. John groaned loudly, tried to block out the sound of that bloody guitar solo George had practised every day for the past week by covering his head with his pillow, and failed. Too much noise, not enough pillow. Life was unfair.

John sighed in defeat as he extracted his face from the warm skin of the bloke snoring softly in his arms - Brad? Eric? No, Xander. No wait, that was last week. Dimitri, that's it... - and released the lad's thin frame to grab the alarm clock. He wasn't wearing his contacts yet and would be damned if he put on his glasses so John held the thing about an inch from his nose and squinted hard, eventually reaching the conclusion that the numerous red dots formed the numbers 8:27. With a frustrated yell, John threw the clock at his bedroom door. It never even reached that far and softly landed on a discarded pile of clothes, from where it seemed to mock him. Such, John lamented silently, was his life: one failure after the next on such an absurd level that he couldn't even wreck his own possessions when he tried.

"Get up," he finally murmured at the comatose figure to his right. If John wasn't going to be sleeping anymore, then neither would his latest fling. It took a few efforts, ending in John giving the lad a good, firm slap on his bare arse when none of the more gentle pokes and prods seemed to cause much effect. That, at least, elicited a response, even if it was little more than an aroused-sounding moan which brought back fond memories of the previous night's kinky tryst. "Oi, Dimitri. Wake up, you lazy cunt."

The blond mop of hair shifted, and a pair of bleary green eyes blinked slowly at John. "Who the fuck is Dimitri?"

"Erm... You?"

"I'm Gareth, John. Fucking hell." Shaking his head in unveiled disapproval, the bloke slowly got out of bed, clearly still overcome with sleep, judging by the way he'd teeter to the point of nearly losing his balance every few seconds.

Little by little, he shuffled through the room, picking up clothes until finally, John began to remember chatting him up. It was the sight of Gareth - what a stupid name, anyway - putting on the faded tank top with a picture of Bob Dylan that refreshed his memory: the main reason John had noticed him in the crowded club. They didn't seem to have a lot in common but John thought him rather cute so he pulled him anyway, as one does. He hadn't had any complaints, in any case.

After having momentarily disappeared from view to gather and put on his Vans, Gareth eyed John and grumbled, "I guess you won't be texting me, then?"

"I reckon not," John confirmed, flopping back down onto the bed. Well, he might have if he actually had Gareth's number. Then again, he probably wouldn't. The shag was great and all, and it was certainly a nice change of pace to fuck someone with a pain kink, but the lad didn't look half as good in daylight (in other words: when seen through sober eyes) as he did last night at the club (meaning: when John was drunk and randy) and frankly, John had his fill of posers who pranced around in band T-shirts without being able to mention three of their songs. There ought to be a law against that, he thought as Gareth walked out of the room - and, going by the loud slam of the front door, straight out of the flat - without so much as looking back. Fucking rude prick.

"Dimitri not a keeper then, is he," George smirked upon John's arrival in the tiny kitchen, interrupting his playing long enough to make sure John would hear the little taunt.

John cast him a threatening glare, which sadly didn't seem to impress his young flatmate. Quite the contrary, in fact, since his dark expression was met with one of George's huge, fanged smiles. John rolled his eyes and grumbled, "his name's Gareth. And no, we didn't hit it off."

"Could've fooled me, the way you went at it," the younger bloke chuckled merrily. "Liked to be slapped around, that one then, did he?"

"Stop listening in, you little pervert."

"Couldn't help but hear, mate. I reckon half of Liverpool got the gist of it," he sniggered, adjusting the tuning peg on his B-string whilst John ambled over to the cupboard, from which he pulled the cornflakes. Empty. Frowning at George, John slowly turned with the box in hand, only to receive a lopsided smirk in return from the guitarist, whose dark brown eyes followed John through the cramped space whilst he deadpanned, "we're out of cereal. Eggs, too."

"You don't say," John snapped, waving the empty carton in George's general direction. "And you thought putting back the empty containers would achieve what, exactly? The food you stuff your gob with doesn't reproduce itself, Hazza!"

Sometimes, he wondered what had possessed him to accept that walking rubbish bin into his flat. The thought that out of all the people who emailed him about the advert he'd posted on various message boards, this idiot was the least offensive one was, quite frankly, depressing. For a few moments, John could only stand there, contemplating the sorry state of his life as he scrutinised the other bloke. 'Atomic Bomb', his tatty T-shirt said. Ironically, the name had been inspired by a comment John had made, that one time he innocently walked into George's bedroom, which had resembled what he'd imagined Hiroshima might have looked like after the blast.

The worst part was, that George had only been living there for three weeks at the time. John had come this close to kicking the lad out, and would have if he had been able to afford the rent on his own. But, with his (long-term, much older, permanently employed) ex-boyfriend long gone, John's inability to keep a job, and George's willingness to pay his share and put up with the constant stream of one-night stands and the noisy sex at all hours of the day and night... Well, kicking the kid out was a luxury John couldn't afford. Not that he was particularly tidy, mind. But George, the leader of an up and coming band which hadn't settled on one definitive sound yet, was in a different league altogether.

Then again, what could anyone expect from someone who straightened and dyed his hair - which had probably been dark brown and curly once upon a long ago - jet black with one big, bleached section near the front, which basically had a different colour each week? If anyone kept Manic Panic from going under, it would have been George. Currently, The Streak was a violent shade of pink. A fortnight ago, it had been neon green and sadly, so were the bathroom tiles. The dye always washed out of George's hair soon enough. If only John could be sure the tiles would ever be white again, too...

There was never any certainty about what George would be wearing. His current outfit of purple leggings with a galaxy printed on them, paired with one blue-with-colourful-polka-dots and one yellow sock, a black T-shirt with a mushroom cloud and the name of the band in bright, spiky lettering on the front, and a pair of pink headphones shaped like cat ears on his head was actually one of the more conservative outfits John had seen on the lad. There was, after all, that time he'd gone out in a pair of pyjamas. Hello Kitty pyjamas, no less. Though, admittedly, he had been pissed as a fart, then. Not to mention high as a kite. Which may or may not have been caused by the magic brownies John had fed him as revenge for eating the last tub of Ben and Jerry's... But even so. The mere fact that a bloke in his early twenties even owned Hello Kitty pyjamas was bad enough...

Considering how odd Geo was, his habit of eating everything within a five-mile radius and putting back the empty containers was easily one of his more normal habits. How someone like that had managed to not just find a girlfriend, but a pretty one who appeared to be completely normal, was anyone's guess.

Probably, John reluctantly admitted to himself, because George was cool. Nobody was more himself and nicer about it than that walking skeleton, and on top of that, he didn't have the slightest problem with John's sexuality. They could walk in on each other naked, and neither would mind. Although, if he was truly honest, John would prefer not to have witnessed George in the act of having sex. As open minded as he was, straight people going at it didn't really tickle his fancy. He liked his partners to have matching naughty bits, and loads of body hair if possible...

Seemingly unaware of John's inner turmoil, George stuffed a spoonful of soggy cornflakes into his mouth and mumbled around the food, "it's your turn to go to the shop."

"But you bloody ate everything!"

"I didn't make the rules, mate," he shrugged, jerking his head at the brightly coloured sheet of paper on the fridge, which contained the house rules neither of them ever really abided by. "Your day off, so you do the shopping. Besides, I had to listen to you shagging. You owe me for the mental scars."

John supposed that was fair enough. He had, after all, come in at an ungodly hour when George had already gone to bed, and proceeded to have ridiculously loud sex for the better part of an hour. He sighed in defeat and dejectedly bit into a rice cracker, but not before he said, "Fine, but you're cleaning the bathroom. That dye has to come off."

"It won't. I tried."

"Have you tried bleach? I'm not looking at green tiles another day, George." John hoped that would work, anyway. If anything, he could kiss his deposit goodbye if he was ever to move out of the flat and leave the bathroom looking like that.

"Fine. I'll try that, then," George shrugged, swallowing the last of his cereal. After putting the bowl on the worktop, he looked up at John with a suspicious glint in his eyes. "John?"

"What?"

"We need bleach." And with that, he plugged the headphones into his amplifier and started to play. Sighing, John went to find his shoes and the key to his bicycle, wondering for the millionth time if anyone would be genuinely upset if George would simply disappear someday...


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm in love... I'm all shook up..." Paul interrupted his grooming routine to launch into his best impression of Elvis' signature wiggle, much to the amusement of Mike, if his snort was to be taken as a review of his older brother's dancing skills. Not that Paul was about to be bothered by that. When he heard those old tunes, the jitterbug just took over, and he didn't see how that was anyone's business but his own although, of course, it made him wonder sometimes.

It wasn't the first time that Paul had the fleeting thought that he should've been born fifty years earlier. He'd always been drawn to old music like Buddy Holly, the Everly Brothers, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and - obviously - Elvis Presley, who was his biggest idol. The young Elvis, mind you. Not the fat caricature the legend had become in the seventies, shortly before his tragic death. Imagine dying on the loo...

Suppressing an involuntary chuckle at the mental image, Paul imagined how great it must have been to grow up when rock 'n' roll was all the rage. But alas: his passport clearly stated 18 June 1992 as his date of birth, which must mean he really wasn't around when girls wore petticoats and boys had pompadours. He supposed his own, improvised, version of that style would have to do. And so he loved to grease back his hair in a DA, and walk around in drainpipe jeans which he'd roll up so they ended right above his ankles, skinny ties, and the brothel creepers he found at some website that sold all kinds of fifties- and sixties inspired clothes.

"Haven't you finished yet, Paul? You're not getting any younger, you know. Or prettier..." Shrieking with laughter, Mike deftly dodged the half-empty shampoo bottle Paul hurled at his head and disappeared in the direction of the sitting room. The annoying git...

Sadly, he wasn't entirely wrong, Paul concluded as he glanced at his watch. He'd disappeared into the bathroom with the idea to have a quick shower before his long-anticipated date. However, two hours had passed since. Granted, half of that had been spent soaking in the tub, but he couldn't deny the simple and somewhat disturbing fact that he'd spent nearly an hour on towelling off, getting dressed, and grooming. Which also meant he had been trying to get his hair just right for over thirty minutes: a new low, even for him. Especially since he still wasn't quite happy with the result. It looked exactly like Elvis wore his in the picture Paul had taped to the bathroom mirror for reference, and yet... Something was off, but what? 

Still, it hadn't been a complete waste of time. Listening to good music never was, nor was singing along to said music as loudly as possible, one of Paul's favourite pastimes. Looking at the time, though, he realised he had to hurry and even if he did, chances were he'd be late to pick up his date. 

Paul had first spotted Natalie three months prior, and he'd fallen in love instantly. He didn't even know that much about her, other than that she studied something-something tourism, she was a year younger than him, and she was difficult to persuade into going on a date. He should know, he'd been trying to convince her from the day he first saw her. Then again, maybe she just didn't fancy him all that much... It had been known to happen.

And now, after finally getting what he wanted, he was about to fuck it up because they were supposed to be at the restaurant at seven, it had already gone six, meaning that unless a miracle happened, they'd arrive late. Not knowing the place's policy on missed reservations, Paul hoped he wouldn't end up having to settle for McDonald's or the chippy...

"Would it have killed you to warn me, Mike?" Paul hurriedly gathered his things, scolding his sibling as he went, walking past his phone twice before spotting it and nearly bursting an artery when he couldn't find his keys. "Fucking hell, she's going to kill me. Or worse: cancel the date."

Chuckling at the half-arsed Harry Potter reference, Mike brushed past Paul and picked up the keys that were in the exact same spot the always were: on the little shelf next to the hat rack. He dangled them tauntingly in front of Paul's face. "You have got to get your priorities straight."

"Yes, Won-Won," Paul winked, grabbing his rucksack, and spreading his arms in that universal 'give-me-your-opinion' gesture. "What do you reckon? Do I look alright? Maybe I should change int-..."

"You look fine, you always do," Mike interrupted, failing to hide the way he rolled his eyes. Paul cast down his eyes at the genuine compliment. He'd always had a love-hate relationship with his appearance which had gotten him out of trouble on more than one occasion but had also been the source of a lot of pain. He had never gotten over the bullying - not really. Seemingly unaware, or simply ignoring the momentary lapse in Paul's confidence, Mike prattled on, undisturbed. "You could show up in a burlap sack, or naked, and you'd still look fine. Don't do that, by the way. The naked thing, I mean."

Grateful for the open invitation to defuse the atmosphere, Paul chuckled, hoisting his tatty old bag onto his shoulder. "Why not? Might start a new trend, you know?"

"That's exactly what I'm scared might happen," Mike grinned. He let his eyes wander over Paul's outfit and hummed a bit as if he was trying to put his finger on something. After a few seconds, he suddenly reached up to pull a strand of hair out from the quiff Paul had spent so much time perfecting, ignoring the startled protest. "There. Now it's perfect. Well, go on, then. My pizza should be here any moment and I'm not sharing it with you."

The whole interaction, even though it was lightened by Mike's joke, almost felt parental to Paul. He thought it was a bit funny considering their age difference and Paul being the oldest, but it felt right nonetheless. In a way, Mike had been ahead of his years for a long time, though saying that aloud never failed to annoy the 21-year-old art student, who was quite happy to take full advantage of his status of younger brother, especially when it meant not having to be responsible for anything. 

With a curt nod, which looked a lot more resolved than he felt, Paul turned and headed towards the door, catching his reflection in the little mirror over the key shelf. Mike was right: the vintage hairstyle he'd been hoping to emulate looked much better now that a bit of hair was peeking out and casually resting on his forehead. Of course, he was now giving off more of a 'John Travolta in Grease'-vibe than the 'Elvis in Jailhouse Rock'-vibe he'd been going for and which his outfit was loosely based on as well, but somehow it worked. He could only hope his date would agree. In order to find that out, he'd have to get going, so he straightened his back and went.

The air outside the confines of his flat was oppressive, stifling. Paul hadn't even reached the bus stop on the corner yet, and he was already missing the mobile air con Mike had managed to get on offer at Wickes' a few weeks earlier. The thing made a lot of noise, especially given the fairly limited area it cooled, and the insane amount of electricity it required, but it felt like manna from heaven now that Paul felt just how muggy it was. 

He was so busy being aware of the heat, in fact, that it nearly made him forget to stop by the elaborate rose garden, a few houses down from his building. Glancing around to keep from getting caught, Paul quickly picked one of the big blooms nearest the street. It was very pretty, he thought: a deep shade of yellow with dark orange, almost red edged petals. He subconsciously brought it to his nose as he quickly walked away, inhaling the strong scent deeply. With any luck, it'd be enough to be forgiven for his tardiness. And if not, he could always stick it in the buttonhole of his jacket... Deciding he wanted to do that anyway, he swiftly sprinted back to steal another, slightly smaller one for himself.

Always the type to sweat easily and profusely, Paul could already feel a sheen forming on his face, and was that a drop trickling down his back? He reckoned an electric storm would break out before long, or so it felt anyway. Then again, he mused, scanning the sky for signs of impending release, there wasn't a cloud in sight. He absentmindedly plopped into the first empty seat the bus had to offer and rummaged through his rucksack for the packet of paper handkerchiefs he kept in there, dabbing the back of his neck against better judgement. It was a wasted effort anyway. He'd spend half the night sweating like an otter, and all the Kleenex in the world couldn't stop that. All he could hope now was for his deodorant to save him from further embarrassment. Minutes later, Paul raised his arm to wipe his face, using the diversion to take a quick whiff of his armpits. So far, so good...

_~*~_

"Alright, Johnny?" Ringo aimed a surprised smile at the colleague who just walked into the kitchen. "Didn't expect to see you today, mate."

"Filling in for Pete," John merely said, making his way into the back without further explanation. He wasn't in the best of moods and hoped to shake it off before he could start any rows, especially with Richie, since it was hardly fair to take it out on the one person he liked most at his job. 

Earlier that day, when he was out shopping, Pete had sent him a WhatsApp, saying he couldn't work tonight. John didn't believe a word of the 'got the flu' excuse and had initially ignored the text. He was already well on his way to getting in a funk, what with the humid heat and George's string of texts about this, that, and the other thing they'd apparently run out of. John had drawn the line when the request to pick up some Electric Blue hair dye and a packet of condoms had popped up. There was a limit to his patience, after all. Never mind that he needed to buy some of the latter himself and that he'd actually been at Boots, no more than ten yards from the dye aisle when the message arrived. What Geo didn't know, couldn't hurt him, so he'd texted back a succinct 'piss off' and left it at that.

He'd just been staring at his bike, wondering how the hell he was going to get a big, heavy bag of groceries home when his fixie had neither brakes nor a carrier when his phone rang. The boss. To tell him Pete was ill, and to say he had to start at six. Somehow, John had managed to negotiate, but the only difference was that he had to start at seven and knowing Brian, he'd probably just keep him an hour longer anyway. With that in mind, John's mood had dropped below zero, and that was largely how he still felt when he walked into that kitchen, where chef Richie was handling several pots and saucepans at the same time, whilst bossing around his minions.

Having changed into his work uniform, a black button-down with the words 'Ristorante Italiano di Bruno' and an outline of the Roman Colosseum in red, white, and green embroidery on the back and left breast, matched with a tie, apron, and jeans which were all completely black, John ran a comb through his hair and washed his hands. He caught his reflection in the aluminium pantry door and smirked. The uniform was deceptively posh for a restaurant that wasn't half as fancy as it seemed at first glance, but it did look very good on him. Making his way to the front to pick up his tablet and station assignment, John meticulously rolled up his sleeves as far as he was allowed, casually glancing around and nodding at customers as he weaved through the restaurant until he stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly backing up a step or two, he did a double-take to make sure he saw it right the first time. Out on the patio, a couple appeared ready to sit down, but it wasn't the girl who caught his eye. Well, they never did, did they? All par for the course for an out and proud gay man, John supposed. He barely - but only just barely - contained the urge to let out a wolf whistle at the sight of the man who had his back turned. A shock of raven hair, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and an arse to die for. Utterly fuckable, John mused as he found himself briefly licking his lips. And those legs... They went on for bloody miles! 

The mere fantasy of what those might feel like when wrapped around his waist sent a surge of heat into his nether regions, where he could definitely feel something growing. Thank fuck for all-black uniforms. Nobody would notice the bulge. They never had before, anyway... 

Noticing a nearby customer was trying to get his attention, John tore away his gaze. With his luck, the bloke would probably look like a dog anyway and besides, he was on a date with a girl. Fat chance of ever getting to bury himself inside that glorious bum... Feeling bereft all of a sudden, John checked in with the head waiter, Giorgio, whose real name was actually George, a slightly older posh bloke from London, who had the most ridiculously fake Italian accent when he was at work. Well, they all did, didn't they, but none of them had ever even been to Italy as far as John knew. Not even the owner, who was a Liverpudlian Jew named Brian, and not some Italian bloke called Bruno, even if the canopy said so...

"Alright, George? Full house tonight, isn't it?"

"I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Giorgio when the restaurant is open, Giovanni," George hissed, putting a lot of emphasis on John's fake stage name. It never ceased to amuse him and it seemed so contrived, but the job paid well enough, so he was happy to play along. 

"Si, signore, scusa," he drawled, putting on an affected accent. Flashing his superior a clownish smirk, he glanced over his shoulder to see two colleagues working the tables inside, which lead him to a logical conclusion. "I got the garden then, do I?"

"Yes, you will be covering the patio," George confirmed, handing John the tablet they used to take orders, and two menus. "You can start with table six. They've just been seated."

That was all he needed to say, so he fell silent and ignored John in favour of checking the orders that were flashing on his computer screen. Whenever a waiter entered an order into their touchscreen device, it'd pop up on the main terminal so that only one person was actively sending orders into the kitchen. Knowing the drill by now, John went to collect a basket of fresh bread and a carafe of chilled water, which he took with him to the new arrivals. As he carefully placed the items on the table, he began to recite the standard introduction, using a more subtle Italian lilt this time, because he only did the exaggerated one to annoy George and Brian.

"Good evening, my name is Giovanni, and I will be your waiter to-..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, lads and lasses. That's three chapters in one day. I'm going to give myself a little bit more time to post the other ones, okay?

John completely forgot his lines, right then and there. He'd made eye contact with the people seated at the table when he handed them their menus. The girl, he vaguely noted, was rather pretty with light brown hair and very blue, almost sapphire eyes. John noticed a big, unusually coloured rose in her hair. It was a deep, sunny yellow with red and orange accents.

He found himself smiling kindly at the girl who had to be as fond of flowers as he was, or she wouldn't have used something so elegant to complete her outfit which was otherwise not particularly original or impressive. Just a simple summer dress, paired with a pair of high-heeled espadrilles and a thin cardigan, all in kind of matching shades of yellow and green. Without that stunning flower in her hair, she would've looked very plain indeed, save perhaps for the heart-shaped face and the remarkable eyes. All of that had happened in the span of a second or two, after which John turned to hand the other menu to the girl's date: the bloke with the heavenly arse.

The moment John laid eyes on the man's face, the words got stuck in his throat. Looking up at him with a pleasant, if not somewhat detached smile on his face was the most beautiful person on earth. A nine, easily. He still could have ended up being a ten; John would have to see more to make up his mind about that. He didn't know where to look first since every feature drew him in like a moth to a flame. Big, golden brown eyes which seemed to flash green were framed by the longest lashes and the most elegant eyebrows John ever saw on a bloke.

There were freckles scattered around those eyes, as well as vague lines underneath them, which indicated this was someone who laughed a lot. A smallish, mostly straight nose bearing the slightest hint of sunburn showed the way down to a pair of lips just begging to be kissed. And those cute hamster cheeks... There was something boyish and youthful about them. John just about managed to tear away his gaze before the gawking would get too obvious, only to land on the lad's forearms which were bare since he'd taken off his jacket. John's mind screamed 'ermagherd, look at all the body hair!' in a rather girlish kind of internal squeal. Just when he thought the man couldn't get any more perfect...

At long last, he found his voice, mostly by forcing himself to look at the girl who left him utterly cold. Praying the pause hadn't lasted too long, he finished, "...night."

Paul, meanwhile, was starting to worry about the waiter's abrupt interruption, which lasted a good few seconds before he seemed able to complete the word 'tonight'. He hadn't paid the man - Giovanni, apparently, which seemed like entirely the wrong name for him - much mind until he handed Paul a menu, at which time he'd reminded himself it would be rude not to look up and acknowledge the person who'd be bringing their food. After all, there were enough stories about the things angry waiting staff had done to the dishes they presented to customers who pissed them off and Paul didn't much fancy any of that. Also, it wasn't in his nature to ignore people, so he'd smiled politely and made eye contact.

What he hadn't expected, was to feel how his heart missed a few beats upon meeting the waiter's face. The citrusy, somewhat nasal voice had managed to send a very pleasant shiver up Paul's spine, and as it turned out, the man's face went very well with his mesmerising voice indeed. A pair of clever, almond shaped eyes in a gorgeous, warm shade of brown seemed to pierce Paul's soul, and he couldn't help but notice Giovanni's hair had almost exactly the same colour as his eyes: auburn, with the red tones beautifully enhanced by the evening sun.

Everything just seemed to match: the strong, aquiline nose went perfectly with the masculine curve of the man's mouth, and his jawline made Paul want to jump up and see if his own profile would fit into that curve the way he sensed it would. But no - he shouldn't think like that. He was on a date, for crying out loud. So, rather than continue to drink in that stunningly handsome face, he forced himself to focus and gently touched the lad's arm whilst he inquired, "Are you alright?"

At this point, John was ready to just die right there. Sure, it might put a damper on those people's night out, but he couldn't take it. Why was his life so unfair? Not only did that bloke look like he'd just fallen from heaven, he sounded that way too. If John hadn't been half hard by then, the sound of that deep, melodic, dead sexy voice sure helped things along. And that subtle touch just then... It probably meant nothing but it sure sent a jolt of electricity through his veins... amongst other things.

This person was John's dreams personified, so of course, he was straight. What else would he be? Life was bent on making John as miserable as possible anyway, so why stop now? 'Then again', a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered, 'maybe it's his sister or his cousin. He could still be gay' as if there was any chance of that. John found something safer to look at: the smaller rose that lay discarded on the table, withering slowly in the hot August air. The same kind as the one stuck in the girls' hair, only this one was just budding, kind of like the type of thing men would wear on their lapel... Which probably was where it had been, anyway. It certainly would have gone well with the fifties-inspired look the bloke had perfected: yet another thing to arouse John's interest. He truly hoped this one wasn't just a hipster wannabe. It'd be terrible if he was...

"Fine, thank you," John finally managed. "Warm, isn't it?"

If Paul hadn't been feeling hot yet, he would have been by then. Grinning in acknowledgement, he momentarily forgot who he was with and stole another glance. Yep, he was still the most attractive man he'd ever seen. He wasn't a mirage after all, then. Probably straight, though. Paul's gaydar, inasmuch as he had one, didn't go off in any case. Not that he had never been wrong before. But in this case, he reckoned there was no use in even entertaining the thought. If only, he had to remind himself again, because he was currently on a date. With a girl. Not just any girl, either: he'd very much like to end the night with a good shag, seeing as how it had been a while...

"Shall we order?" He flashed her the biggest smile in his arsenal and threw in a wink for good measure. Natalie, who'd seemed a little bemused a second before, blushed a little, which caused a lovely flutter in Paul's stomach. It might not be with the sexy waiter, but as far as he could see, there was going to be some sex in his immediate future.

To his bemusement, though, she didn't open the menu but immediately addressed the waiter instead. "I'll have the vegetarian lasagna," she declared. "And for dessert, I would like Tiramisu."

Paul didn't even know if the place served vegetarian food, but even if it did, he wondered why she didn't at least check to see which dishes were available. Then again, he thought, perhaps she'd been here before, or heard good reviews about that particular dish, or the dessert which seemed a bit... well, unoriginal. It wouldn't be fair to judge the girl on just that, would it? Of course, it wasn't the first hint of annoyance he'd felt that night...

Looking up in time to catch what seemed like a badly concealed eye-roll, Paul suppressed a chuckle and waited for the order to be tapped into the PDA. He'd quickly leafed through the few pages which offered so many different dishes, it made his head spin. He'd seen at least six things that he'd love to try, but he vaguely remembered something he once read and decided to take a different approach.

The instant Giovanni looked at him - Paul clearly noticed the sceptical expression which told him the waiter half expected him to choose such an obvious dish too - he put down the menu and asked, "What are the chef's recommendations?"

It must have taken at least ten seconds for John to realise his mouth was hanging open. Scowling himself for making the worst first impression known to man, he scrambled to dig through his tablet, hoping Ringo had actually selected some specials. He usually didn't, since hardly anyone ever asked. Their clientele wasn't generally that developed. Using the delay to compose himself, John finally managed to find what he was looking for and slipped back into his 'professional waiter, like' mode, rattling off the descriptions which made him rather hungry just reading them.

"For starters, we recommend the Panzanella salad consisting of spiced croutons and chopped vegetables, or the Antipasti." He looked up from the screen to see mister Perfect Bottom was hanging on his every word with a delightful smile on his face which went all the way up to those kaleidoscope eyes. Best not do that again, he reckoned as he swallowed and scrolled down to the next tab, or he might forget how to talk a second time.

"For main courses, we have three suggestions. The first is Ossobuco: veal shanks, braised in white wine and served with vegetables and polenta. Second, we have Ribollita, a Tuscan bread stew with white beans and onions. And lastly, for our main courses, we have Acquacotta: a rich bouillon with porcini mushrooms and celery. It's suitable for vegans," he added, unable to suppress a slight air of contempt at the word.

Paul chuckled softly at the slightly disgusted expression that ghosted over the waiter's face when he uttered the word 'vegans'. He personally didn't have anything against those people, but he couldn't see himself eating like that, either. Eager to hear that thrilling voice again, he made a mental note of what he was going to order and decided to ask for more information. "Very nice. And the dessert?"

"Yes, of course. Today's desserts of choice are the Zabaglione, which is a custard with sweet wine and whisky, served with fresh fruit and meringue. It's my personal favourite," he added with a grin. He knew Brian hated it when he injected his personal opinion into the conversation, especially when, like now, he expressed a preference for a dessert that was one of the cheapest ones available. If he was going to recommend anything, he knew, it was expected he praise the pricey stuff. Well, too bad. He wasn't going to lie about it just to line Brian's pockets. "Alternatively, you can also choose Gianduia Semifreddo, which is a frozen dessert of two types of chocolate and hazelnuts."

"Better not risk that last one," Paul chuckled, reluctantly taking his eyes off the hot waiter for a second to address Natalie who, to his sincere shame, he kept forgetting was even there. "Would you like the Antipasti? We could share."

"Oh no," she replied as if someone had just suggested something utterly indecent. "I don't want to eat too much. I'll just stick with my choices and not have any starters. But I don't mind if you take three courses, Paul."

Well, that was disappointing. Paul had barely eaten all day in anticipation of what he'd thought would be at least a three-course dinner. Since he obviously wasn't about to sit there and have an additional dish when she'd just be there twiddling her thumbs, he supposed he had little choice but to adapt. He didn't mind so much that this meant he wouldn't have to spend quite as much money, but somehow he couldn't shake the thought that this was just another sign that the date wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. Shaking off the gloomy thought, he once again sought eye contact with Giovanni.

Paul... So, that was his name, then. It suited him, John mused as he let the name roll around his head a few times. A simple name, sure, but then so was John, wasn't it? He kind of liked proper, no-nonsense English names. Much better than the crap some people named their kids, he reckoned. Paul... Pretty Paulie... Who was watching him with that perfectly arched eyebrow raised in a way which suggested he saw John as a mental case for staring into oblivion like... Well, like a mental case.

"Sorry, got distracted. The heat wave, you know," John murmured, schooling his expression. "Have you made your choice?"

Yeah, the heat... Paul felt the heat, alright. Just not in the same way the sexy waiter bloke probably meant it. Well, that too, but he'd nearly forgotten about how stifling it was, what with his midsection doing backflips and all that. He cleared his throat and - again - told himself to forget about it. "Yeah. I think I'll skip the first course then. The Ossobuco sounds great, and I'll have that fruit dessert. What did you call it again?"

"Zabaglione," John said, momentarily turning his fake accent up a notch or two, delighted to see that face crack into an amused grin as a result.

"Right, I'll have that. And a bottle of wine, please. Erm, whichever the house recommends, I guess."

With a polite nod, the waiter fiddled with the handheld thingy some more, and then made his way to a nearby table, from which he deftly cleared the empty plates whilst assuring the people there their main course would be served soon. Paul found himself stealing glances at the retreating figure until a slightly annoyed sound demanded his attention. To his surprise, Natalie was glaring daggers at him. "What?"

"You ordered meat," she hissed, disapproval dripping from every syllable.

Paul huffed at her offensive tone of voice and replied in kind, failing to see the issue. "Yeah, so?"

"So, I'm vegetarian, Paul. I thought you'd be more sensitive than that."

What was he supposed to say to that accusation? She hadn't mentioned it before and even then, he still might have ordered the same thing. It sounded tasty, didn't it, and he was paying for it after all. Still, he wasn't about to start a row over it. Just like he didn't say anything when she'd voiced her resentment over his showing up five minutes late, or her reluctance to wear that rose which she'd thought would be riddled with lice, or the other little things that made her suddenly seem not as attractive as she had at first.

"The waiter is right there," he shrugged. His eyes wandered to the person who was now decanting white wine, a few tables away. Bloody hell, those thighs could kill, he mused. Paul sighed inwardly, scolding himself for continuing to go into that train of thought. Even if he hadn't been on a date, and even if, by some amazing coincidence, that bloke fancied men, he'd still have to steer clear.

As hot as he was, that Giovanni bloke was dangerous, that much Paul could tell. It was plain to see by that glint in his eyes or the curl of his lips. And Paul had sworn never to get involved with dangerous men again. Once stung, and all that. In fact, he thought, turning back to face Natalie instead, he was probably better off only dating girls, which seemed like a safer route. He did have that option, which was more than most people could say. Wanting desperately to salvage the night, he gently took her hand and leant in closer with his charm turned up to eleven. "I could order something else if it's that important to you."

She didn't take the bait. Slumping back in his chair, Paul took a big sip from his glass of water. This date was not turning out the way it should...

John had stopped dead in his tracks at the way the word 'what' got uttered behind his back. There was a certain coldness in that lovely voice which had sounded so warm earlier. Frowning, he turned his head to catch a hushed power struggle at table six. The girl seemed annoyed by something and that, in turn, appeared to get on Paul's goat. Curious to find out what was wrong, John loitered nearby, fussing over some tableware and topping up glasses whilst straining his ears to hear the hissed argument.

From what he managed to pick up, the girl didn't like his choice of menu because it wasn't vegetarian. Inside, John did a happy dance. If the date was going that badly that early in the evening, there might still be hope for him yet. If only there was some way of finding out if this Paul bloke swung both ways...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't properly beta this chapter, so please ignore any silly mistakes. I'll weed them out later.

"John?"

A pointed knock on the door nearly ruined the moment. Thankfully, John only had to close his eyes to see the object of his desire as clearly as if he was standing in front of him. Just remembering how he - Paul - had sipped that wine, savoured it with the tiniest of frowns, and then looked as if it was the best thing he'd ever tasted, was enough to make John float on cloud nine. He'd never been happier to decant, and it was entirely possible he'd poured a bit more into that glass than he was supposed to...

"John!" Ringo's voice was more urgent now, and rather than knock, he had resorted to kicking the door. "Are you wanking?"

"No," John replied too quickly, his voice a mixture of guilt and petulance. "Only a little."

A short bark of a laugh drowned out the familiar sounds of pots and pans being banged about. "I'll have none of that in my kitchen, son," Ringo chastised him from the other side of the door. "It's not sanitary."

"I'm not actually in the kitchen, am I?"

"Save it for someone who cares, Johnny. Order for table six will be on the pass in three minutes. So stop tossing yourself off and get back to work. I mean it, mate." And by the sound of his voice, which had dropped to the low end of its spectrum, Richie did mean it. 

"I'm not having a wank," John managed feebly, reluctantly stopping the very activity he was rightfully being accused of. He wasn't going to finish anyway, not now that he was completely distracted. In fact, if anything, he was getting softer, not harder. Unable to bite back a frustrated groan, which he supposed just as easily could have been interpreted as something else entirely, he tucked himself in and leant his head against the wall. So much for getting off on the mere thought of what he, when given half a chance, might do to that delightful creature out there on the patio...

"Yeah, you're just really happy to be taking a shit, right? Hurry up, mate. And for fuck's sake, wash your hands. We're supposed to be a respectable restaurant." The head chef's voice trailed off as he walked away, but not fast enough for John to miss the last, dejected addition to his rant. "Sort of..."

Grinning, John sorted himself out, taking extra care to douse himself in deodorant before exiting the loo because even though he hadn't actually come, he still reeked of sex, not to mention sweat, since he hadn't had a chance to shower between that shopping excursion and leaving for work. Sure, he smelt as if he'd just fallen into a vat of Lynx Dark Temptation, but the fumes had seemingly killed what was left of the reason he'd locked himself up, so he wasn't walking around with a stiffy the size of the Blackpool Tower anymore. Mission accomplished, John supposed, although he felt sad about getting there without the fireworks, so to speak.

Now all he could hope for was for those big bedroom eyes to not look at him again with the same intensity that got him into that predicament in the first place. Which, sadly, was probably too much to ask since all this Paul fellow had really done was order food and comment on the wine. John hated to think what might happen if the bloke would actually do anything remotely flirtatious. Cream his pants on the spot, most likely, he mused as he pressed a cold, wet paper towel to the back of his neck. Fucking heat wave and its effect on his libido...

The mere smell of him as he re-entered the kitchen made Richie turn around with a look of disgust on his face, though there was a definite twinkle in his eyes. "You're hopeless, John."

"You haven't seen this bloke, Rings. Even you would get hard looking at him." He glanced at his reflection in the shiny, scrubbed aluminium of the hob and ran a hand through his curls. "It should be illegal to be that attractive. Nobody can blame me for falling in love. I have, you know. Fallen in love, I mean."

"Sure: truly, madly, deeply. Heard that before, I have. You're always in love, Johnny." Ringo chuckled at his own joke which, like all good jokes, found its foundations in reality. John was an insufferable romantic, who was always fawning over someone at any given time. "Trouble is, you fall arse over elbow for someone else every other day."

John huffed indignantly at the implication. "I do not. Twice a week, at most! Anyway, this time's different. I think I just met my future husband, mate."

"I'll take your word for it, Johnny. But, didn't you say he's on a date with a bird? Sounds like you're barking up the wrong tree, son." Ringo took his eyes off the plate he was dressing and shot a meaningful glance at John, who quickly looked away in favour of going over his appearance to see if he was presentable. John wondered if Paul would notice if he'd remove his tie and unbutton his shirt a bit. Just two buttons... Or maybe three? Without realising, he'd started to hum the Savage Garden song Ringo referenced, though he briefly stopped when Richie addressed him. "There's a spot on your sleeve."

Indeed, there was, right on the cuff. There was even a smudge of it on his skin. Tomato cream sauce, by the look and smell of it, John concluded. Must've happened when he was clearing table nine and that snarky tone in Paul's voice had nearly made John drop the plates. Either way, it stood out like a sore thumb against the dark fabric of his shirt and of course, he didn't have a clean one to change into. Cursing his boss for the posh, all-black uniforms, John rolled up his shirt sleeves a bit further to hide the stain, revealing the half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm in the process. 

Perhaps, he mused, glancing at what was visible of his ink, it wasn't the worst outcome anyway. John was dead proud of the art he wore on his skin. Then again, his tattoos were the very reason Brian wouldn't allow him to roll up his sleeves that far. For some reason, the codger didn't think them presentable. Oh well, John mused, between showing some ink and walking around with a soiled shirt, chances were Brian would prefer the former. Besides, the colourful tattoos kind of spiced up the otherwise not very exciting uniform. Speaking of spices...

Casting one final glance at his appearance, John adjusted some wayward hairs before straightening his back and ever so surreptitiously edging his way to the shelf where Ringo kept the dried spices. There were smaller containers within grabbing distance of the stoves, but John had no need for those. What he wanted, were the big tubs in which they came. The little devil inside his mind had just come up with a fiendish plan to get rid of the girl - Natalie, or something - who'd been so rude to Paul, who by now John found himself beginning to think of as 'his Paul' because well... Maybe if he thought it often enough, it'd end up being true?

Realistically, he knew those little tense moments weren't meant to be witnessed by him, and he supposed it was none of his business either, and yet, he felt offended on (his) Paul's behalf. What's more, that pretty little thing with the nasty case of entitlement stood between John and the man he wanted and thus, she had it coming. A simple case of adding two and two, really. 

Humming the 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' song a little louder, John unscrewed the tub which contained the dried chilis. For most recipes, Ringo used fresh spices, being an honest-to-god chef who took pride in only using the best, and all that. In some cases, however, the dried ones worked better and thus, they always had some at hand. The whiff of them made John's eyes water a little, which only made him feel more determined. He casually sauntered towards the order for table 6, and-...

"John, what the fuck are you doing?"

A devilish smile played across John's face as he faced his friend. He never even flinched, he was that sure of his plan. However, he'd have to think fast if he wanted to actually be able to pull it off. "That bloke we've been talking about, Rings? He's gonna have one hell of a first date tonight, and it isn't with that bird he brought in. Which plate is hers? I'm gonna give it some more seasoning..."

"No, you bloody well aren't!" Richie yanked the spice from John's hands and peered through the tiny window, into the restaurant where he probably couldn't see more than the top of one head, and the back of another. As he turned back to face John, he squinted at him, apparently wondering why John was so sure of himself. "Why, what's she ever do to you?"

"I didn't want to tell you, Ringsy," John said solemnly, hoping a kitten wouldn't drop dead somewhere as a result of his lies. He lowered his voice, silently crying victory when Ringo automatically leant in closer. This was exactly the kind of response he'd been hoping for: once that seed of doubt was planted, John could get Richie to do anything. He'd even talked him into baking marijuana brownies -  
during opening hours, no less - a few months prior: the very same he'd tricked Geo into eating. 

It had required the both of them to utilise their combined imagination to convince Brian, who'd been alarmed by the weird smell, they were just trying out a new recipe. Thank fuck the man was so gullible, John thought. Pulling himself back into the present, he adopted an expression of deep regret as he made himself hurt his friend's pride. "I didn't want to say anything, mate, but she's been in here before. She said... Christ, how do I tell you? She said your Carbonara was the most disappointing thing she'd ever had. Gritty, she called it, like scrambled eggs, you know. And, well, she thought it was bland too..."

The little chef's head towards the restaurant and back to face John turned so fast, John was sure he'd get whiplash from it, and his big, blue eyes grew to twice their normal size. John couldn't have picked a softer spot to hit: Ringo took a lot of pride in his sauces, especially that one, and rightfully so. John loved Ringo's Carbonara; all silky and smooth with bags of flavour... He'd worked years to perfect it. No plate ever left his kitchen without being seasoned to perfection; he personally made sure of that. So, to hear someone thought his food was lacking was enough to send good old Ringo into a cold fury. 

"She said that? The bird who came in with that bloke you fancy said that? You're sure?"

John nodded quietly, biting his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood. It killed him to hurt Ringo's feelings, but it was too late to backtrack now.

"That bitch," Rich finally grumbled, tearing the top off the pepper pot and sprinkling a generous amount over a nearby plate of lasagna. To John's delight, he didn't stop there but took it a step further by adding copious amounts of garlic before hiding the crime with some freshly ground Parmesan, all the while muttering some choice expletives about vegetarians and how impossible they were. 

John didn't mind them, as opposed to vegans whom he hated ever since he'd had a terrible time dating a rather militant vegan a few years back, but he wasn't about to say anything to snap Ringo out of his mood. After all, it wasn't exactly his habit to deliberately sabotage the food he worked so hard to cook. Moments later, the disgruntled chef thrust the plate at John, who struggled to hide his amusement and swiftly made his way to his victim before his conscience could stop him. 

So far, his plan was coming together very nicely indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a spring in John's step as he manoeuvred himself through the labyrinth of tables, the two plates balanced precariously on his right forearm whilst he clutched a big carafe in his left. It was basically a larger version of the ones on each table, and the waiting staff would periodically do their rounds, topping up the ones that were starting to reach depressing levels. John didn't actually need to do that at that time, he'd done it right before his little 'Wankus Interruptus', but he'd stopped by the bar for a different reason and thought it might raise suspicion if he didn't, so...

His smile was beaming when he arrived at table six, and the sounds of appreciation turned the professional one he had been wearing into a rather silly one. How could a grown man be so enthusiastic about being served some overpriced food? Still, if Paul wasn't going to be self-conscious about his undiluted joy, then neither was John. Besides, that lad looked hella cute, all happy and excited like a kid on Christmas morning.

Natalie didn't waste any time digging in, Paul noticed when their food arrived. Well, she had complained about how long it had taken for their meals to arrive, so he supposed she was very hungry. Still, she could have at least waited until he had his plate too. Oh well, he shrugged, what's the use of worrying anyway, especially when he had better things to think about? A minute earlier, his heart had leapt up when he spotted that tell-tale gait of the approaching figure, and by the time he could see Giovanni's smile up-close, the butterflies had completely taken over to the point of being unable to do much more than smile. He supposed it was really a bad thing to be infatuated with the waiter, especially when out on a date with someone. 

Then again, he'd given up all hope of ending up in Natalie's bed (or she ending up in his, for that matter) and truthfully, he didn't much care anymore. What was that saying? Be careful what you wish for; it might come true... Well, the truth was that reality wasn't nearly as charming as the fantasy he'd nursed for the past three months. She was fun to look at and nice enough for a superficial chat, but dating material? Magic 8-ball says 'outlook not so good'. Pity about the missed shag, though. 

He wasn't too sure he'd be able to get over this crush he had on brown-eyed, handsome man quite as easily, however. As the lad in question arranged the plate of Ossobuco just so, he invaded Paul's personal space. The moment he leant in from behind, that special way waiters do, his hair had ever so slightly brushed Paul's cheek. Curls... He loved curls, especially on gingers. Auburn-haired people were redheads too, weren't they? It looked red enough anyway, now that the sun had nearly completely set and the sky was a kaleidoscope of pinks, purples, and oranges. 

Having the man this close-by meant Paul also got a strong whiff of his deodorant, which smelt of chocolate. Best perfume ever. Whoever thought of it, should get a statue and Paul made a mental note to try and find out which scent it was so he could go out and buy some for himself. Suddenly, Paul kind of wanted to lick it off of Giovanni's skin, just to see if (he) it tasted as good as (he) it smelt. Not because he just wanted to suck the sexy waiter's neck, of course. Or snog him until they'd both be gasping for air... Ahem. 

They had a moment. Yes, that's right. One second, John was leaning over to turn the plate so it'd be the right way up, whilst his other hand fumbled to find Paul's jacket pocket. He'd paused on his way from the kitchen to scribble his phone number onto a paper cocktail napkin (which he supposed would be more practical than one of the fancy linen ones from the tables), along with the words 'Crying, hoping, waiting for a call', along with some X's and O's, just to make sure the recipient knew exactly the kind of call was expected. John hoped the Buddy Holly reference would have the desired effect. It should, he thought, if Paul truly was a fan of that era. He hadn't signed his name, though. Some mystery wouldn't hurt. 

Anyway, when he was busy stuffing that napkin into a pocket, it occurred to John exactly how close his face was to Paul's. He couldn't help it, his eyes acted on their own accord. They'd locked gazes for several seconds, and John could swear he saw Paul's pupils getting bigger. That meant something good, didn't it? Up close, he noticed those eyes weren't just brown. No, that was only the middle. The outer edge was a deep emerald green, and there were specks of gold on there, too. 

John's breath had hitched at the sight of those stunning colours, and he was sure the gap between them was getting smaller, even though he wasn't the one making that happen. It was a moment if ever there was one and John was absolutely sure they would've kissed if that bloody berk hadn't decided to choose that exact moment to find out the lasagna was 90% pepper. Talk about spoiling the mood!

The sound of someone gasping had broken the spell. Probably a good thing too, Paul mused, considering he'd gotten this close to kissing Giovanni. He couldn't prevent losing himself in those hypnotising eyes. nor from slowly leaning in. His body appeared to be completely out of his control at that point. Even his hand seemed to function independently, seeing as how it was already off the table and halfway to reaching that wonderful hair he so badly wanted to feel between his fingers. Saved by the bell, then, or by the choking girl in this case. It happened so fast, Paul didn't know what else to do but sit there and stare. 

First, the girl had sat there, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. The next, she'd started drinking like one, draining first her own glass of water, and then Paul's. Apparently, it wasn't enough, since she'd grabbed the big carafe John had momentarily parked next to the smaller one so he could arrange the plates, and drank straight from that, pouring half of it down her front. Well, at least it seemed to do the trick. If only he hadn't laughed, things might not have spun out of control. Then again, wasn't that the idea?

He couldn't imagine why she took it so badly. It was only a joke. Paul thought it was funny. John could tell by the way he shook with suppressed giggles whilst clearly struggling to keep a straight face. A fat lot of good that did him. It didn't fool John, nor that girl, Natalie, who'd turned into some kind of banshee at the mere sight of their amusement at her expense. First, she threw her glass of wine at him - John - but she missed. Then, she'd grabbed Paul's glass, which John had just topped up, and repeated the same thing, only this time succeeding in hitting her target.

Paul had actually been doused before. Those things happened, it was an unavoidable part of student life for one thing. However, he'd never taken a full glass of red wine to the face, particularly from that angle. Most of it went straight into his eyes, and some went up his nose. Not pleasant, to say the least. "Fucking hell, that hurts," he groaned, throwing up his hands to ward off any further attacks. 

Paul's head was reeling what the hell was going on, anyway? In the meantime, the wine stung something awful, and he could feel tears streaming down his face. Not from crying, mind you, but because his eyes were watering so profusely. Whilst he blindly felt around for something with which to ease the pain, the mayhem continued around him. He couldn't see since he had his eyes firmly shut, but he sure could hear.

He had to do something, John decided. Having completely lost control of the situation, he did the next best thing: leave the bird to stew in her own juices and help Paul instead. Without thinking, he reached for what was left of the water, meaning to wet a napkin or something like that. Maybe that would be useful. What he honestly did not plan, was to slip on the puddle of wine on the floor and lose his balance. 

Next thing John knew, the girl jumped up shouting all sorts of accusations at him before disappearing to wherever it was she went, the cute yellow dress stained red from the lasagna that had fallen into her lap when John nearly fell over. He hadn't meant for his hand to come crashing down on the edge of that plate, couldn't have calculated the perfectly elegant way in which the abused dish had been launched, nor the wonderfully poetic place it fell: right on top of her lady bits. All of that had been utterly accidental. That didn't mean John didn't love every second of it because he did. Very much. Well, except for what it did to Paul. That, he didn't enjoy at all. Poor bugger. Could it get any worse for that lad?

Finally, his hand found something soft. It felt like a napkin. That ought to help a bit, Paul hoped, so he grabbed it and pressed it to his eyes, praying to the gods of rock 'n' roll that getting the sticky wine off his face would make his eyes stop aching. It didn't. At all. In fact, a whole new level of pain he never experienced before seared his nerve-endings. Paul didn't even scream. Couldn't, actually, what with the wind having been knocked out of him. He might have produced a kind of ultrasonic squeak, though, because someone cursed loudly and pulled away the napkin.

"Get up," the same person commanded. It sounded like the waiter, although if it was, then his voice had changed completely. Paul felt himself being pulled to his feet, and then grabbed by the shoulders. What else could he do but allow himself to be herded off to...? A door opened, and then he heard the best sound imaginable: running water. "Bend over, mate, get that pepper out before it burns holes in your eyes." Who was that? It couldn't be Giovanni because this person didn't have an Italian accent, even if the voice was similar. One of the customers, maybe?

"I got it now, ta'," Paul managed, beginning to feel the embarrassment increase as the pain in his face lessened. The adrenaline was wearing off and the realisation of what just happened dawned. He'd have to go back out there eventually. He'd need a few minutes to gather courage, so he'd rather be alone. "I'd rather be alone for a sec if you don't mind." Whoever it was - Paul still couldn't see on account of his head being underneath the tap - patted his shoulder in an affectionately comforting sort of way and left, blocking out the noise of the restaurant as the door fell shut.

_~*~_

"You've gone too far this time, John." Brian's voice was unforgiving. Still as proper as ever, obviously, but definitely determined not to give John an inch this time.

He'd been told to see Brian in his office, the moment he'd emerged from the employees' loo in which he'd locked himself after leaving Paul alone as per his request. Somehow, that strange sound he'd made when the pepper-stained napkin did its worst had snapped John out of his daze. He'd known instinctively what to do: rinse, rinse, and rinse some more. So, he'd basically dragged Paul into the customer's toilet and shoved his head under the tap, which seemed to do the trick. The fact that the poor sod hadn't wanted John's help hurt, even if he could understand on some level. It was his bloody fault, after all, so no wonder he wasn't exactly being lauded for his efforts and quick thinking. Still, he'd hoped... 

So, even though it wasn't something he was wont to do, John had fled into the bog that was squeezed between the kitchen and the coffee lounge/locker room where he'd had a bit of a nervous breakdown. He might even have cried like a little girl, though he was never going to admit that, and he'd refused to come out until Ringo promised to make him his favourite dessert. Which he hadn't done yet, by the way. Or maybe he had. Brian hadn't given John any time to find out, had he?

Normally, Brian turned a blind eye to John's antics, mainly because he had a crush on him. It wasn't a secret, either. Somehow, John recognised, even that wasn't going to keep him from getting the sack this time 'round. He stared at his clasped hands, his mind racing. He couldn't lose this job. There was rent to be paid, and food to buy, and... Well, he just needed an income. "It won't happen again, Eppy, I swear."

"I've heard it all before, John. What on earth possessed you to do this? What if that young lady was allergic? Imagine the repercussions of that..."

"I know." John tried to meet the other man's eyes now, hoping to charm him into relenting. "You should've seen that bloke, Brian. I couldn't think straight anymore."

A hint of something Usually reserved for John ghosted over Brian's face. "I have seen him, John. I'll agree he's very good looking. Rather charming too."

"Don't get any ideas," he muttered, suddenly feeling as if his territory was being invaded. "I saw him first!"

"Don't worry, he isn't my type." To hear something like that being said in that prim and proper accent was rather funny, and John chuckled a bit. Not long, though, since the look on his (ex?) boss' face was kind of intimidating. "I'm afraid I have to inform you of your dismissal, John, it can't be helped. I'd like to ask you to leave now; you don't have to finish your shift."

Well, that was that, then. Shaking his head, John got up and stomped out of the office, heading straight for the dressing room where he stripped off his soaked uniform. He vaguely recalled that girl knocking over the wine bottle in her search for water, but he never even registered how much of its contents had seeped into his clothes. His iPhone was all sticky, and neither the home button nor the power button made the screen light up. John could only hope it'd work again once it was dry but he feared the worst.

After changing back into the faded jeans, white T-shirt, and red Converse trainers he'd worn to work, John grabbed his things and waved at Ringo, who was busy preparing desserts but nonetheless managed to cast him a sympathetic smile. No doubt they'd catch up for coffee soon enough. They were friends, after all. As he made his way to the front, John's eye fell on Neil (Nicola to customers) who was clearing away the remains of the scene that had gotten so terribly fucked up. 

"Sorry about the mess, mate," John muttered. "I would've cleaned it up myself, but... Well."

"Don't worry, John. Text me later, yeah?" And with a friendly pat on his shoulder, Neil hurried off with shards he'd just swept up. 

He'd be back with a soapy cloth soon, John supposed. Most of the mess was gone now, anyway. Feeling curious eyes pricking the back of his neck, he decided he might as well leave. It was then that he noticed something lying underneath the table: the yellow rose that had been on the table all night, right next to Paul's left hand. John bent over to pick it up and smelt it. Even mostly withered, it still smelt lovely. With the pretty flower in hand, John finally left the restaurant, only to see a blinding flash of lightning crawling across the darkening sky. When it rained, John mused, it poured. In his case, literally...

_~*~_

It had just started to piss down buckets when Paul shut the front door behind him. He didn't even mind. Going by the many bright flashes and the nearly continuous rumbling sounds, they were in for a rough night. It seemed to him like electric storms were moving in from three directions and since the Mersey would probably make it difficult for the front to move south, chances were the city would be under siege all night. 

Not that Paul cared. He was inside, home and dry (well he would be, once he dried off), so the thunder and lightning didn't bother him. What did bother him, however, were his eyes. Nearly an hour had passed and they still burned. They hadn't stopped watering yet, either. The trouble was that he kept wiping away the wetness in order not to look as if he was crying, and the skin wasn't happy with all that rubbing.

Thinking he might as well go sleep it off, Paul set a course for bed, taking a detour into the sitting room when he noticed the light was still on. Sacked out on the sofa was Mike, who appeared to have nodded off sometime during the film that had now ended. A few slices of cold pizza sat forgotten on a plate, whilst an empty bag of crisps and a bunch of candy wrappers littered the area nearest Mike. Next to the plate of pizza stood a half-empty cola bottle, but Paul couldn't see the cap anywhere. 

Too tired to make a fuss, Paul wiped the debris off the sofa and onto the floor, reckoning it'd still be there in the morning. Mike could clean up the mess then. After carefully prising the remote out of his kid brother's hand, he switched off the Blu-ray player and dug up a bedsheet, which Paul reckoned should keep Mike from being eaten by mozzies. Content with the result, he confiscated the remains of the pizza, as well as the cola, and made a beeline for his bedroom, where he'd probably get a better date out of five minutes with his left hand, than this entire night with Natalie...


	6. Chapter 6

The morning after the night before...

_~*~_

Early afternoons were Ringo's favourite time of day. He'd nearly always be alone at the restaurant, preparing for that night's dinner service. He didn't trust anyone else to make fresh pasta, which had a kind of therapeutic effect on him. Kneading the dough, and then rolling it until it had just the right thickness and elasticity... It was a form of art, and he knew nobody in Liverpool was quite as good at it as he was. Later, when the rest of the kitchen personnel would arrive to start chopping vegetables, making stock, and making all the other preparations, he'd be in his own corner where nobody was allowed to disturb him, calmly making ravioli and tortellini, making sure each little pouch contained the same liberal amount of filling and was perfectly shaped. It was almost like meditating to Ringo, and though he loved all aspects of cooking, making pasta would always be his favourite pastime.

It was in that state of zen that a voice rang through the restaurant, rudely interrupting that lovely sense of deep relaxation. "Hello?"

"We're closed," Richard shouted back, hoping the intruder would leave him in peace. Unfortunately, it didn't appear to be his lucky day, because a few moments later, he could hear footsteps approaching until that same voice spoke again, having halted in the doorframe if he gauged the distance correctly. Having his back turned, he couldn't be absolutely sure. 

"I'm sorry to disturb, I was just hoping you could help me with something?"

Ringo chanced a quick glance over his shoulder before rolling the batch he was working on one last time. Leaning casually against the jamb, was a tall, skinny kid whose T-shirt looked a size too small for his broad chest. Late teens or early twenties, by the looks of it, though Richard couldn't be entirely sure which since he was wearing sunglasses. Handsome bloke, though, he noted. A bit of a mix between Elvis and Marlon Brando in their prime, with an outfit to match. This was obviously someone who spent a lot of time trying to look good. 

Turning back to focus on his work, he answered the question he supposed was going to get asked. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. "The modelling agency is three streets down, son. Walk back to the corner, take a left, then a left again just past the police station. Halfway down, there's a small street to the right. That's where the studio is."

Paul laughed out loud at the suggestion. A model? Him? Yeah, that was likely to happen. It was bad enough Mike was always snapping candid pictures of him, or making him participate in his art projects. The idea of having to do that professionally seemed like living hell, not to mention he hardly considered himself remotely good-looking enough for it. "Cheers for the compliment, I guess, but I'm not looking for that. I'm hoping to find someone who works here, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Now that he was there, Paul was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. Mike had pestered him for all the grisly details and when Paul had finished talking, he'd looked him squarely in the face and stated: 'you're in love'. No matter how much he'd opposed the idea, Paul knew deep down it was true, and so he'd allowed himself to be talked into finding that waiter. It felt like a daft plan, now. Too bad he hadn't come to that conclusion sooner. There was no going back now. Trying to sound casual, he continued, "One of your waiters: Giovanni. He was waiting on me and my girlfriend last night, but things got a little out of hand. Do you know where I might be able to find him?"

"Well actually, he got fi-..." Halfway through his explanation, a lightbulb went on inside his head. Abandoning his beloved pasta for a moment, Ringo turned around to face the lad. Was this the bloke who'd made John behave like a lovesick teenager? It had to be... He seemed to have all the characteristics John had prattled on and on about, and he was certainly every bit as attractive as John had said. What was that name he mentioned? Peter? Phil? No, hang on... "You must be Paul."

"Yeah. How do you know my name?" A flutter of hope stirred in Paul's stomach. Someone had been talking about him. The owner and the head waiter, who'd fallen over themselves to apologise didn't seem the kind of people to gossip about customers. That really narrowed it down to one possible explanation. "Did Giovanni say anything to you about what happened?"

Had to be the same person, then. That left Ringo with another big question: what did this kid want? He mentioned a girlfriend, so it didn't look like he was going to be playing matchmaker for John. Poor sod had the worst habit of falling for the wrong people. Of course, the girlfriend thing could be a guise, but Ringo didn't really get a gay vibe off this lad. Then again, he wouldn't have guessed John was gay either if he hadn't outright declared it on the very first day he started working at Bruno's. 

"His name is John, actually. None of us is Italian; the act is just part of the job. What do you want from him?"

John. Not Giovanni, but John. Much better name, Paul thought. Strong, straightforward name. That Italian name never did seem right: much too poncey. Yeah, John was actually a really good name for him, now that he thought about it. Definitely much easier to remember when he'd be in the throes of-... Erm... Better not think about that. Pushing back the arousing thought, Paul remembered he was supposed to be an angry customer and made himself look and sound the part. "An explanation or an apology would be nice, for starters. And I had to take some of my things to the dry-cleaners. I think it's only fair if he pays for that."

Twat. Sure, he'd probably had a shitty evening, but what about John? Didn't he just explain he didn't work there anymore? Oh wait, he hadn't. Not really. "John doesn't work here anymore. I reckon he's paid a high enough price for his mistake."

"What? He got sacked?" Bloody hell. Paul slid the aviators up into his hair and met the chef's gaze full-on. "That seems a bit harsh..."

The moment the rest of the kid's face got revealed, Ringo winced. He could definitely see why John had been in such a state. He'd never ever looked at a man twice, but he couldn't deny he was... well, beautiful, he reckoned. And, considering the way he reacted to the news about John losing his job, not the twat Ringo briefly thought him to be. Pity about those red, swollen eyes, though. "Fucking hell, is that from last night? Looks painful."

"It's alright. Itches now, mostly," Paul grinned sheepishly. Thankfully, the eye drops he'd gotten (Mike had begged him to see a doctor just to be safe) had worked wonders. "So, Giov... I mean, John did tell you what happened then, did he?"

Ringo felt terrible. It was his fault, really. He was the one who'd added all those extra spices to the dish. What's more: he'd used ground cayenne pepper rather than the dried chilis John had wanted to use, which probably made it a lot more painful and much harder to get everything off the skin and out of the eyes. And to think the whole revenge thing wasn't even meant for this Paul kid, who seemed like a nice enough bloke. 

Putting aside his apprehension, Richard wiped his hands on his apron and fished his phone out of his pocket. Maybe, just possibly, this whole drama might still end well. Some people liked men and women alike, didn't they? What if Paul was one of those people, and that's why he wanted to contact John? The odds weren't good, but then, you never knew, but he supposed he'd find out soon enough. He at least owed it to John to give him a fighting chance. He had, after all, taken the blame for what happened. If he hadn't, they'd both have been sacked. "Do you still want to have that chat with John? I have his number right here..."

_~*~_

"No... No... Mayb- no... Fuck no... Why not... No... Fucking hell!"

Why was it so bloody difficult to find a halfway decent job? John had spent the past two hours perusing job search sites such as Monster, Indeed, and Fish4Jobs, and now he was scraping the bottom of the barrel by going over the adverts on the online version of the local newspaper: the Liverpool Echo (echo... cho... o...). Most of those asked for cleaners (fuck no!), some sort of college degree (no), or a few years of relevant experience (fucking hell!). The only thing that was a remote option was a job at the WHSmith near the uni, but since he'd already been sacked from the one at Lime Street Station, it was doubtful he'd even be interviewed. Still, that was more than two years ago, and it couldn't hurt to try...

Picking up what was left of his chocolate milkshake with one hand whilst typing with the other, John started filling out the various fields until he reached the inevitable one which asked for references and prior employment. That was always tricky. If he was honest, his application wouldn't even be considered. Christ, he wouldn't hire him, either! So, the idea was to massage the truth to paint a better picture, and hope they wouldn't check if what he'd entered was correct. For this, John reckoned, he needed both hands. He emptied the paper cup with an obnoxious slurping noise which earned him some annoyed glances, cracked his fingers, and put on his thinking cap. Metaphorically, of course. He hadn't a clue if such caps even existed...

He'd just finished sending in a second job application - working the till at the Asda, a job he hoped he wouldn't actually get - when the temperature seemed to drop. Someone was blocking his sun. John hated when they did that. Ever so slowly, he shifted his eyes whilst keeping his face turned towards the screen of George's Chromebook. The moment his gaze landed on a pair of brothel creepers, he knew who he was looking at. If that wasn't a dead giveaway, the bow-legged stance would have given it away. John's heart rate increased little by little as his eyes travelled upwards. He'd dreamt about Paul, but somehow the real thing looked even better. 

Today, John noticed, he'd gone for a James Dean look. All the essentials were there: the tight jeans with the rolled up cuffs, the plain white T-shirt which hugged his chest and upper arms so delightfully, and even a short jacket with upturned collar, though this was made out of denim rather than leather. The perfect DA and a pair of aviator sunglasses completed the look. He even wore a scowl that wouldn't have been out of place in Rebel Without A Cause. To sum it up in one word: damn!

"Hello.... Giovanni," Paul said, putting an extraordinary amount of emphasis on the name. He sounded less than thrilled. This couldn't be good.

"John, actually," John grinned sheepishly, extending his right hand. "John Lennon. The name and accent were just part of the job. No need for those anymore."

Paul wondered who he was kidding with his indignant act. He wasn't mad at John. Maybe he had been a bit, but not for long, and certainly not since that chat with that cook...Ringo. Allowing his expression to soften, he shook the proffered hand. "Yeah, I heard. Drag, isn't it? Anyway, nice to properly meet you, John. I'm Paul. McCartney. Mind if I sit?"

"Sure," John nodded, moving his stuff aside a bit. He wasn't going to be searching for jobs now that he had company anyway. "How'd you know where to look for me?"

"I didn't. I was in the area so I reckoned I'd watch the parade. I didn't think I'd find you here." Paul allowed his eyes to wander to the masses of colourfully clad people. They certainly were a sight, he thought. There was a time when he might have joined them, or at least worn something to indicate he was one of them, but he hadn't done that for years, unlike John, he noticed. "Cool T-shirt."

"Ta'. My flatmate gave it to me," John grinned, feeling the need to defend himself. Well, it was a dead ugly thing, really. The Rolling Stones logo was cool enough, not much wrong with that. However, the tongue wasn't its usual red, but all colours of the rainbow, and to make matters worse, the entire print was made out of glitter. Whilst it was John's habit to wear rainbows during Liverpool Pride, this was a wee bit much. "Don't look at it too long, you might go blind."

"I think I'll be fine," Paul chuckled. "Erm... Does this mean your flatmate is gay? Never mind. Don't answer that, it's none of my business."

"It's a free world, Paul. You can always ask. But no, he isn't. I am, though."

"You are?" Suddenly, Paul's heart was in his throat. John was gay. He didn't know whether to be happy about that or start to panic. He wanted him to be gay, obviously, but now that he was... Well, the whole 'no more men' thing just got a lot more difficult.

John narrowed his eyes. Was that a hint of judgement he heard or was that just his mind playing tricks. "Yes, really. You?"

"No, I'm not gay." Well, he wasn't. Of course, he wasn't straight either,   
but he wasn't going to say that just yet. Paul decided he wanted to find out if John was as dangerous as he thought him to be. If he was, then he'd keep his bisexuality to himself. If he wasn't, well... Then there was no reason not to pursue him, was there?

"Pity," John muttered under his breath. He'd really hoped Paul would be attracted to men, preferably him.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

For a little while, they sat there, chatting about all kinds of things whilst admiring the many outrageous outfits, and pointing out the best and worst ones to each other. John was having a gay old time (no pun intended...or was there?), mostly because he spent about twice as much time watching Paul as he did observing the tourists and participants of the Pride festival. It must've been nearly an hour (and two milkshakes each) later that Paul suddenly addressed a random bloke who was approaching, clad in a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt.

"Hey, cool shirt, man! What's your favourite Hendrix tune?" John just managed to catch the meaningful wink (ermahgerd, he winked!) which told him Paul had an ulterior motive.

The kid, who couldn't be a day over sixteen, looked like a deer in headlights for a good few seconds before muttering, "Voodoo Child, I guess... Or Purple Haze, I like that one, too."

Since Paul was turned sideways, John could see behind his sunglasses, so he clearly saw him rolling his eyes. However, his voice was dripping with honey when he replied. "Oh yeah, great songs. Echoes, then? I always love that one, don't you, John?"

"Oh yeah, that's a classic," he drawled, fighting back the urge to break out in giggles. "But my favourite would have to be Purple Rain. Come to think of it, I love all of his purple songs." Of course, he knew as well as Paul did that Echoes was a Pink Floyd tune, and he half expected that kid to at least know Purple Rain was one of Prince's biggest hits. Apparently, though, he didn't.

"Sure, those are great too. Erm... I have to go now..." And off he went.

"Next time you wear a band shirt," Paul said snarkily, "make sure you know their music. Otherwise, you're nothing but a hipster!" He had to almost yell to make sure the kid heard those last words. The poor bugger briefly looked back. John couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw him blushing. Well, he should, he mused, allowing himself to join Paul, who was laughing so hard, he had tears running down his face. 

"Are you sure you're not gay, Paul? Because you've got enough sass to be a raging queer, and I mean that in the best possible way."

The question wasn't answered. Or was it? It was difficult to see through those mirrored lenses that were now facing John, but he thought he saw Paul winking again. Could it be that he wasn't telling the whole truth about his sexuality? Whatever the answer, it sure felt as if Paul was flirting with him...


	7. Chapter 7

"I love your sunglasses, by the way," John blurted out after several seconds of awkward silence which followed that cheeky little wink. He had to somehow distract himself from the things it did to him, so he brought up the only other thing that could explain why he was staring at Paul without blinking. Besides, he did love them. He'd noticed them when Paul first arrived and hadn't been able to stop looking at them. They shouldn't fit in with the whole fifties outfit, what with them having those coloured mirror lenses that looked yellow from one angle and pink from another, but they suited the look remarkably well. 

The spontaneous comment resulted in a smile bright enough to drown out the sun. "Yeah?"

"I do," he nodded earnestly. "The whole look rocks, right, but those sunnies are dead cool."

Paul was grateful for the warm sun, which had already given his cheeks a fair bit of colour. It meant the blush he felt creeping onto his face wouldn't be so noticeable. Hoping John wouldn't see how much of an impact the compliment had, he took a sip from his banana milkshake to buy some time. "I got loads of 'em, you know. They're three quid apiece on eBay like, so I got every colour they had. Got a bunch of round ones, too. You know, like the old granny glasses they used to have?" 

"Yeah, I know those. Been looking for something like that, actually. You should send me the link so I can get some." John kerbed his enthusiasm, remembering he couldn't exactly splurge on too many things he didn't need. "Well, when I find a job."

"Hmm. Right." Momentarily distracted, Paul subconsciously gnawed on the nails of his right hand, furrowing his brow as his mind wandered to a fairly recent memory of an argument he had with Mike. He wondered if he should say what he was thinking. Wouldn't it give the wrong impression if he did? Then again, it would only be a friendly gesture. "I got some duplicates if you're interested."

Christ on a cracker, could that daft little twit get any cuter? Nobody should look that fuckable biting their nails. Was there no end to the ways in which Paul could send John's heart aflutter? Apparently, there wasn't, so John supposed he might as well respond to the comment. "You do?"

"Hmm. Only the round shades, though. I have two of the turquoise-and-purple ones, and the other pair is the same colour as these," he explained, tapping the side of the frames. He could already hear the things Mike would say, should he ever find out Paul was willing to give away the sunglasses to some random bloke he just met, but not to his own flesh and blood. The kid had been scowling for days after he'd been forced to give back the ones he'd confiscated, after all. Maybe he had a point but then again, who bought him that fancy Nikon D3200 camera and the pricey wide angle lens he loved so much? Paul reckoned that after being that generous, he had every right to deny young Michael free reign in his dresser drawer. Let him get his own bloody shades if he fancied them so much. "Not sure about the former, though. It could be the light-and-dark blue ones instead. Or maybe they're yellow and green... "

John chuckled at the seriousness with which something so insignificant was explained. As if it even mattered which colour they were... "How many colours are there, anyway?"

Paul almost started describing the six or seven (or eight, or nine... fine, twelve!) different variations, but then he didn't, afraid it'd make him sound like an even worse spod than he already was. Be cool, he reminded himself. "Oh, I don't know. A few, I reckon. You should come over and see for yourself." 

He had to really bite his tongue in order to keep himself from being too eager. The mere thought of going over to Paul's was entirely too much for John to handle. If it was up to him, they'd go immediately. "Maybe I will," he drawled slowly, struggling to seem only vaguely excited. "Not sure I can spare six quid right now, though. That's two days worth of food, like." 

Paul shrugged. He hadn't even thought of that. He wasn't going to ask for money, was he? It wouldn't be a gift if he did. "You can just have them, you know. I was going to give them away anyway. You can always repay me some other way if it's important to you. Like, erm... Oh, I know. Can you cook?"

"A bit," John lied, "why?" 

"Well, I'm rubbish at it, you know," Paul confessed, finally able to say the words he'd refused to utter thus far, even though he knew his culinary skills were rudimentary at best. Everyone who ever ate at his place could vouch for that: he'd managed to give three people food poisoning so far (not counting himself), and he'd lost count of how many times he'd gotten the shits from his own inedible, home cooked meals. Who knew chicken had to be heated through and through, or that too much butter was actually a bad thing when it made everything taste better? 

Well, at least he knew how to make the perfect pot of English tea. And he could also do toast, scrambled eggs, bangers and mash, and chocolate biscuits. Sure, they tended to be a bit dark (black) and crispy (he might have broken his left front tooth on one), but he liked them that way. Maybe he should consider cooking classes, though... Okay, enough of that now, focus. "Tell you what: I'm doing my annual Harrython Saturday next...."

"Yer wha'?"

The sudden Scouse outburst made Paul grin a bit. "Harry Potter marathon. I watch them back to back once a year: twenty hours of Potter, though it's closer to a full day with snacks and loo breaks. Mike can't stomach it, he always stays at an auntie's house during those weekends. Apparently, watching one film with me is bad enough; eight of them is rumoured to make those around me suicidal. You think you could handle it? You said you were a Potterhead, so I thought... you know. Could be fun." He'd talked so fast, he'd gotten a bit breathless from it. But, it was the only way he could have said all those things without backtracking halfway through. He realised he'd just invited John to spend a whole day at his flat... 

"I reckon I could try." Christ, John thought, now he'd have to find a way to bribe Ringo into teaching him how to cook. He could do a fair spaghetti bolognese, and he'd once accidentally made a really great cream of mushroom soup (it was actually supposed to be a ragout and he still couldn't figure out why it hadn't thickened) but apart from that and the basic breakfast things, he was better at ruining his cookware than he was at making something resembling food. But, Paul didn't need to know that. A week should be enough to learn a few simple recipes, he supposed.

"Great. Why don't you come over early and cook? That'd make us square, right? It'd save me far more than six quid in takeaway alone. How's that sound?" Paul mentally patted himself on the back. Smooth move, he told himself. Cool as a cucumber, and all that.

John didn't have the heart to say they'd probably end up ordering pizza or Chinese anyway. "Sounds like a deal to me."

"Great," said Paul, glad that he'd managed to get his wish - for John to come on over to his place so they could get to know each other better - without making it look suspicious. He dug up his phone, meaning to swap numbers. Of course, he already had John's, because Ringo had given it to him. He'd been trying to call to no avail, though. "Let's exchange details... so we can discuss the time and the food, you know."

"I can't," John sighed, noticing Paul had a pink phone. He thought that was hilarious, but he wasn't going to comment on it. Yet. Maybe later. Or maybe not. Since, well, he had set his sights on the same one, hadn't he? He'd have to get a new one, now that... "My phone died."

"It what?"

"Deceased. Kaput. Carked. Drowned whilst being baptised by some overpriced Italian red wine, approximately..." He pointedly studied his wristwatch, "eighteen hours ago."

The disastrous dinner... Paul had no idea what exactly happened after Natalie threw the wine, but the remains of the crime scene when he did the walk of shame to collect his bag and jacket had quite a story to tell. Broken glass, a mostly empty plate and a big, nasty stain on the floor where a crashed lasagna had just been wiped up by a waiter with blond hair and blue eyes, a drenched table cloth, and the sticky residue of what seemed like a puddle of wine, probably from the bottle that lay on its side. It had been a proper fly trap, that. Paul's shoes still stuck to the ground a little with each step.

Ironically, his own plate still looked picture perfect and he'd almost asked if he could take it to go since it looked and smelt so delicious. In the end, he'd opted against it. People were looking at him funny anyway, so with a quick-witted courtesy and a comical quip (Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you have enjoyed the show, and you can book us for weddings, funerals, and other parties. For inquiries, please contact the head waiter or your nearest loony bin...) he'd scuttered home with his tail between his legs. 

Never in a million years could Paul have imagined that his ego and that poor lasagna dish weren't the only casualties to be mourned. Well, and John's job, obviously. That was a drag, too. "Sorry about that, mate. Can I see? Maybe it can be revived, you know."

"If you manage that," John laughed as he exhumed the earthly remains of his dearly departed iPhone, "I'll name my firstborn after you."

One look at the thing was enough. Paul fiddled with the buttons anyway, trying to look like he knew something nobody else did, but unless it was just a dead battery - and he assumed John had already tried that - then it was fit for the bin. The thing reeked of stale wine, and he could see bits of red in the nooks and crannies. Having it cleaned by one of the Apple Jedi Masters, who alone possessed the powers to actually open a fucking iPhone would cost a million, and it probably still wouldn't do any good.

"My sincere condolences on your loss," he muttered solemnly, handing back the phone with one hand, and digging up pen and paper with the other. "We'll have to do this the old-fashioned way, then."

Paul was a lefty. He hadn't really noticed before, even though he probably should have, John mused. There had to have been loads of little signs, such as his watch being on his right wrist, or him using his left a lot more than his right to grab things. It hadn't sunk in until he'd started writing down his address and number, though. He'd tapped his own details into Paul's phone, had even taken a selfie so that his Cheshire-Cat-grin would pop up on the screen when he'd ring his new best friend, and then exchanged it for the slip of paper Paul handed him. He had really pretty handwriting, John noticed. And he lived bloody far away!

"Kirkby? How the fuck did you end up there? That's technically not even Liverpool anymore, mate!" He kept staring incredulously at the details, but even after blinking a few times, it hadn't changed. The email address was too cute, though. 'Ooh-My-Paul@gmail.com', John read and re-read, wondering if he'd come up with that himself. "I like your email handle."

Paul chuckled. That was one of his better jokes, if not a bit self-indulgent. "I thought it'd be fun to make a play on words, you know. It's that Little Richard song, 'Ooh! My Soul', only I changed two letters so it had my name in it."

"Yeah, I thought that was it. You're not the only one who likes that kind of music, you know. Speaking of music," he said, noticing how much time they'd spent chinwagging, "we should probably head towards Pier Head if we want to find a half decent spot."

The thought had occurred to Paul as well. The parade would start in a few hours, meaning most of the route would already be lined with onlookers. They still had to walk there, which would take twice as long considering the massive crowd heading in the same direction. And, he was getting hungry. "Yeah. Let's get something to eat while we're at it."

"Good idea. Wanna go chippy?"

"Sounds great," he nodded. I'll just pop inside to pay, and then we can go, yeah? My treat," he added when John pulled a crumpled fiver out of his jeans pocket.

"You don't have to pay for me, Paul," John grumbled. Just because he was out of a job, didn't mean he couldn't afford to pay for a few ruddy milkshakes. They only were a quid fifty each anyway, hardly enough to empty his coffers. "I'm not in the fucking poorhouse yet."

Paul shrugged, unsure what the fuss was about. "I know that. Pay me back later then, if it means that much to you. Meanwhile, I don't see why we should make life any harder by splitting the bill, do you?

"No..."

"Well, then. Why don't you pack away your things? I won't be a tick." Of course, it took longer than expected to get through the queue, but at long last, they left the sunny terrace behind and were on their way to the main event. 

John soon discovered that Paul saw everything, and had a lot of trouble resisting all the market stalls they passed on their way to the parade. Sure, he was ogling far too many things he didn't need too, but at least he managed to keep his spending to a bare minimum... thus far. That is until they ran across a big display of official-looking merchandise. He loved the Liverpool Pride logo, which was a stylised version of the skyline, with a flowing rainbow underneath which represented the Mersey river. John definitely wanted one of the T-shirts, and maybe an umbrella, and he didn't have a flag yet, and... Well, basically, he was fucked. 

Paul was thinking one of those pins would be cool. He could stick that on his jacket or his rucksack and he'd be doing something to blend in without compromising his outfit. Not that he thought anyone would be bothered either way... It just felt so weird, trying to pretend he wasn't a member of the LGBT community when part of him wanted to show that he was, especially on this day. Perhaps something somewhat unobtrusive would support that ambiguity. Some people would think he was just an ally, and others would think him either a closet case or someone who didn't do the out and proud thing. Either way, their conclusion would always be more or less right.

He'd just selected a few smallish buttons and pins when John popped up at his side, carrying a bulging bag of all sorts of stuff, clearly all of which was covered in rainbows. Paul couldn't hold back the laughter that bubbled up at the sight of John's face, which looked equal parts guilty and chuffed. "Went on a bit of a spree then, did you? And you said I was bad. You got five times as much as I do, you have."

"Yeah well, I'm gay and you're not, so I'm allowed," he deadpanned, feeling perfectly justified, thank you very much. He rummaged through the bag until he found what he was looking for. "I got you a gift."

Paul took a moment to accept the change for his ten quid, stuffed his wallet into his Eastpak, and fumbled with the pin he meant to stick on the collar of his jacket. "You didn't need to do that, John. I mean, why would you even want to?"

"Because you're my friend and I like you, and I sometimes give gifts to people I like. Do I need a reason, Paul? If so, then the reason can be to say sorry for nearly blinding you yesterday or to celebrate that were mates. You choose."

"You're right, I'm sorry," Paul muttered, noticing how insulted John seemed. He definitely hadn't meant to say anything wrong, he just didn't expect any gifts. "You don't need a reason at all. But I'm glad you think that us being friends is a reason to celebrate. I think so, too. So, what is this gift you got me?"

With a big flourish which would put even the most effeminate Queen (the gay kind, not the palace-dwelling kind) to shame, John presented his purchase. It was the same official T-shirt he'd gotten for himself, only he had gotten a normal, unisex one, whereas the one he got for Paul was a men's slim fit, for obvious reasons (and all of them selfish). "Ta-da! And I hope you'll change into it right here, right now. When in Rome, and all that." He hadn't decided yet whether he'd change, or keep the Rolling Stones shirt on. He was slowly starting to grow fond of the holographic glitter, and it attracted a lot of appreciative looks, so... Maybe he'd just flaunt it for what it was worth.

Paul had t planned on wearing a bloody big rainbow across his chest, but now he wondered why not. Everybody else was doing it... "Hold this," he chuckled, thrusting first his bag, and then his jacket into John's arms. The next bit was a bit awkward for him. Still, he wanted to prove his loyalty so he sucked in his stomach and stripped off his T-shirt, quickly tossing it at John before changing into the one that said Liverpool Pride 2015. As fast as he was, though, he couldn't prevent some random bloke from wolf-whistling, or someone else from fondling his bum rather thoroughly...

John gulped when Paul's T-shirt came off. There was so much to take in... First of all: chest hair! He would t go so far as to say he had a fetish, but he certainly preferred men with body hair (to an extent, there was a limit to how furry he wanted them to be) over those who had little to none. Paul, in that regard, was perfect. He had loads of it on his forearms, and John suspected his legs would look much the same, but there was only a modest amount on his chest. He couldn't see his back but reckoned it would be smooth. There was a delightful trail leading from those well-defined pecs down the centre of his stomach and into... Nirvana. And then there were the muscles... He'd already figured out that Paul went to the gym, but the abs were a pleasant surprise. Too bad he covered them up so quickly. He decided then and there that whatever else he did that day, he'd have to find a good moment to cop a feel...


	8. Chapter 8

"Christ, I'm bursting," John groaned. They'd made it most of the way to the docks, but now his bladder was crying for attention. Well it was bound to happen, wasn't it? It was a surprise it had taken this long, really. They were taking a detour which was twice as long but would get them to the docks twice as fast. After all: much of the city centre was closed off so the parade could pass unobstructed, meaning there was far less space for a far bigger crowd than usual. They'd be crawling at a snail's pace!

Thing was, though, that the businesses in the outskirts had all these ludic ideas to liven up the quieter streets. Several bars offered free shots to passers-by, and far be it from John to pass up on free alcohol. He was starting to feel a bit looser. By no means drunk, not even tipsy even, but just... Relaxed. Anyway, wherever they went now was going to be crowded, no matter what. And John didn't want to end up stuck in a mass of people when he was no longer able to hold it in. With his luck, he'd be miles from the nearest loo (or wall, or tree) when that happened. "Let's find a bog before I piss myself."

Paul was glad John mentioned it because he was fearing he might have an unfortunate accident soon. "Let's go there," he suggested, pointing at a nearby bar that had enough urinals to make sure whatever queue might be there, would move along quickly. "We can get something to eat at the Greek place across the street." For some unknown reason, the restaurant he indicated served all manner of things that weren't Greek at all.

Surprisingly, it wasn't even that bad. They had to elbow themselves through a bit of a dense crowd, but they could make it to the toilets nearly uninterrupted. All the better, John reckoned. Now that he was there, the few seconds it took to unzip felt like an eternity, and he found himself bouncing up and down rather awkwardly, praying he wouldn't wet himself two feet from the bowl. That would just be too embarrassing. Thankfully, he managed to hold it in, and the intense relief he felt when he was able to let go was pure bliss.

A long, contented sigh escaped him when the first stream hit the porcelain. It seemed to go on forever, and ever, and ever, and... Christ, now he was bored, and the piss was still flowing. Next to him, Paul was still going strong, too. He wondered who'd dry up first. And then a completely different thought entered his mind without knocking... Maybe he could steal a glance? It was an unspoken rule that you never looked at the person pissing next to you, but John was nothing if not defiant, and besides, what would it hurt to have a peek? You know, strictly for comparison, not because he wanted to see Paul's naughty bits. Well. Maybe that, too...

"Eyes front, Lennon," Paul chided once he caught John's badly concealed sidelong glance.

"They are!" John guffawed loudly when Paul slid the sunglasses to the end of his nose and cast him a withering glare over the top of the frames. "Well, they were. I never turned my head, did I?"

Sighing heavily, Paul shook himself off and headed for the row of sinks at the other end of the room. "You know, I'm really starting to have second thoughts about us being mates. I mean, if the competition starts this early on, what does that say about the future?"

"You're just upset because I'm bigger than you," John chuckled. He hadn't actually been able to catch a glimpse, but Paul didn't know that!

"As if!" Shaking his head in bemusement, Paul reached for the paper towels, only to find himself being blocked by a bloke who clearly wanted something from him. Not an unattractive one either, if you liked that type. You know, ones that looked like they belonged on a rugby field. Bit old, though: at least a decade older than him, he guessed. Slightly annoyed, Paul tried to find a way past the obstacle. "Excuse me, mind if I pass?"

Rather than step aside, the man moved right back in front of Paul again. He was too tall and too wide to simply push aside. What's more, Paul had no interest in starting a row, so he shifted his weight and shot the guy a look which was meant to say 'what the fuck do you want?' even though he half knew the answer to that. "Hey there. Are you here by yourself? Because if you are, you don't have to be." Christ, he sounded like a rugby player, too. Australian, and all that. Bloody tosser...

"No, he bloody well isn't," John growled, suddenly appearing at Paul's side. He'd seen the awkward interaction and guessed its outcome sooner than Paul had. The instant he sensed trouble - when Paul was washing his hands, oblivious to the way he was being watched - John had stopped trying to squeeze out those last few drops and hurried to help his friend. Glaring daggers at the Ozzie wanker, John wrapped a possessive arm around Paul's waist and pulled him close to his side. To his immense relief (and excitement), Paul got the hint and mirrored the gesture. "He's taken, go find someone your own age."

Moments later, when he was sure the coast was clear, he released his death grip on Paul and ambled over to the sink. He'd been in such a hurry to play knight in glittery armour that he'd neglected to wash his hands. "You know, that's bound to keep happening today. Macca. Events like these are a bloody feeding frenzy: if they half think you're available, they'll make a pass. Can't blame them, but still..."

"Not much to be done about that, though, is there?"

"Well... Most of them would leave you alone if they thought you were taken," John countered, unable to stop himself from suggestively wiggling his eyebrows. He knew it was only half true. Some men would respect other men's relationships, but others wouldn't. It was all a matter of how badly they coveted the bloke who caught their eye, and how much they'd had to drink. "How are your acting skills?"

So, they'd reached that point, then. Paul leant against the wall and crossed his arms across his chest. As much as the idea appealed to him, he wasn't sure he could trust himself to remember it was only make-believe. Especially since it wasn't. Not really. John clearly wanted him; he wasn't even subtle about it. And well, he wanted John, too, but the fear of getting burned by John was holding him back. On the other hand, it would be a drag if random people kept hitting on John, or on him. Paul would much rather spend that time just having fun. "I'm not much of an actor, really. But I see your point. What do you have in mind? I mean, how 'together' do you think we should be to get the message across?"

John chuckled at the liberal use of air quotes, but he was glad he wouldn't have to spell it out or pester Paul into agreeing to the plan. "Let's take it one step at a time. It'll be awkward enough for you to pretend to be gay as it is, no need to take it up to eleven at once." To illustrate his intentions were good, he held out his hand, though he would've preferred to wrap an arm around that tiny waist again: much easier access to Paul's perfect bum. Oh well, maybe later. He did, however, lace their fingers together the moment Paul took his hand. "This alright? I reckon this should keep most of them at bay. We can always take it up a notch if we need to. Assuming you'd be comfortable doing that."

As if he'd object, Paul thought to himself. Knowing him, he'd probably end up forgetting all about his own reservations and be the one doing the dialling up. Even now, he could hardly resist the urge to walk so closely together their hips would touch. This was going to be bloody difficult... And probably more fun than he'd had in years.

_~*~_

The view from the steps of Wellington's Column was rather good, John thought. And not just that of the person sitting to his left either, although he wouldn't have minded spending the entire day just looking at Paul. No, the insanity that was happening around them was very entertaining too. More than once, he only barely managed to keep from spitting his lager down his front. Someone really ought to start selling Pride bibs, he reckoned, the umpteenth time Paul pointed out a particularly hilarious costume. The way John was going, it was only a matter of time until there would be a spot on his T-shirt, which would make it look like that Stones logo had gotten ill...

Paul glanced over his shoulder again. Was John trying to get a message across when he suggested they sit here and finish their fish and chips, rather than risk wearing them down their fronts? They could've sat anywhere: the bus stop across the street, the steps of St. George's Hall, even inside Lime Street Station, where they had to go to pop their excess baggage into a locker anyway. Couldn't very well keep dragging those bulky bags into the ridiculously dense crowd, could they? Besides. If John complained one more time about how heavy that tiny Chromebook was getting, Paul might have to bash his head in with it. But anyway, they could have done that first and settled anywhere else. Instead, they'd ended up underneath an enormous phallic structure. Something was fishy, and it wasn't the greasy food they were sharing.

A loud, beery belch made John grin appreciatingly. Well he should, Paul reckoned. It was far more impressive than any of the ones John produced so far, though it didn't last quite as long as the one a few minutes earlier, which sounded rather sickly. So, that was John in the lead on longevity, then. Oh well. Can't win them all, Paul shrugged, tossing back the last bit of the tepid beer at the same time he spotted another outlandish costume. "Well that's an original use of balloons, isn't it," he giggled, elbowing John in the side to alert him to the couple who had somehow managed to arrange a variety of balloons in such a way that they covered all of their private bits. They didn't seem to be wearing anything underneath, though. Could lead to some interesting moments, that. Some of those were sure to pop sometime...

John cackled merrily at the unusual rig-out. That had to be the most daring one yet, he reckoned. Still chuckling a bit, he bent to the side a bit to let someone pass, secretly grateful that this meant having to press his leg and upper body even closer to Paul's. He'd been meaning to bring something up, so he supposed this was a good as time as any, considering how much Paul seemed to be enjoying the festival. He sure didn't appear to be bothered by any of the embarrassing shite going on, so maybe he'd be up for what John had in mind as well. "Paul, this looks kind of classic, doesn't it?" He gestured at his own clothes, which he thought were timeless enough.

"Sure, why?"

He paused a moment to swallow the mouthful of chips he'd shovelled into his gob the moment he'd finished asking his question and pulled a face as he felt it going down. Choking was one way to die, John supposed, but he'd rather try to make it to his birthday, so he thumped a fist against his sternum a few times until finally, the lump of food made it all the way down. Crisis averted. Although... If he'd choked, then maybe Paul would've performed mouth to mouth. Oh well, maybe next time. What was he saying? Oh. Right.

"Let me put it this way: have you noticed anything particular about the city? More specifically: the people in it?"

"Other than the fact that we've been pointing out all the silly costumes for the past several hours, you mean?" Oh, the things they'd seen... The best moment so far had to have been when he noticed a vaguely familiar bloke in a pink ballerina outfit, including a sparkly tutu and fairy wings, which had sent John into a maniacal laughing fit. Apparently, it was the owner of the Italian restaurant. When Paul had spoken to that man the previous night, he never in a million years could have dreamt someone that proper would ever wear such an outrageous costume. It made you think, didn't it? "And, you know, other than that it looks as if a rainbow got the stomach flu and ended up shitting and spewing all over Liverpool? Because if you mean that, then yeah, it's pretty hard to miss."

"No, you numpty," John cackled, finding the mental image Paul just painted far more amusing than he probably should have. "I mean that you can tell which people belong together just by looking at their clothes. Half the couples wear matching or complimenting outfits."

"Oh, you mean that! Just part of the fun, isn't it? Easier to find each other in the crowd too, I reckon. All you'd have to do is tell people your partner wears the same outfit as you. Good thinking, that." He slapped John's hand away to keep him from stealing his half of the chips, only to be repaid with a bruising jab in the ribs. "No! You already ate yours. Bugger off, John."

"Ornery sod... Come on, give us one." After a long pause, Paul sighed and relented. In turn, John surrendered some of his fish. Too much vinegar on that anyway. "Anyway... What I was going to say, is we should do that."

"Do what?"

"Make our outfits match, of course. Haven't you paid attention at all, Paul?" John took his time sucking the grease off his fingers, and then wiped them on his jean-covered legs for good measure. "Do you reckon we could this," he indicated himself and then waved his hand at Paul, "into something like that?"

"Sure, I reckon that'd work. You're halfway there already, you know. All you need is a DA, and maybe..." Scrutinising John's clothes a little closer, Paul decided he could definitely turn John into a convincing greaser. Ideally, he'd need a leather jacket to complete the look but most people wouldn't know the difference anyway. He started by getting rid of the last bits of food, which had gone cold and soggy anyway, after which he focused on rolling up the sleeves of John's T-shirt so the ended halfway up his biceps so that the Cheshire Cat's grin was just visible.

Not for the first time, Paul admired the colourful Alice in Wonderland sleeve that covered two-thirds of John's right arm. Whoever made it was one hell of a talented tattooist, making those classic images look three-dimensional and all. Then, he took off his own belt and gave it to John, since he needed it more to perfect the style. There was only one crucial thing missing now. Grinning, he dug op his comb and the travel-sized jar of brilliantine he carried around. "Now for the piece de resistance..."

Having Paul tinker with his clothes was one thing. A good thing, obviously, but nothing compared to what came next: the DA. John stood stock still whilst his hair was getting greased back, teased, and manipulated by a very serious looking Paul, who seemed oblivious to the silly, lovesick smirk John knew had to be plastered all over his face. Apparently, he didn't see or hear the way people around them reacted, either, but John certainly did, and it only made him grin wider. Far too soon for his liking, Paul stepped back, judging the result whilst chewing his bottom lip, the sight of which did funny things to John's private bits.

"It isn't perfect, but it's the best I can do for now." He whipped out his phone and activated the camera app, turning it to selfie mode so John could see himself. "What do you think?"

John was speechless. If that wasn't perfect, then what was? He still had his curls, but the sides were slicked back, and the hair now fell into two identical, mirrored quiffs. The frontmost bits rested on his forehead, from where it all just moved to the back as if it had always looked that way. When he turned his head a little, he could even see the ducktails on the back of his head. He looked a right Teddy boy, even if his outfit wasn't as perfect as Paul's. And all of that had taken what; ten minutes? "Fuck me, that's brilliant. How do you do that?"

Resisting the urge to blush like some silly schoolgirl, Paul bent over to put away his things before replying semi-casually, so as not to show how chuffed he was by the compliment. "Practice. Loads and loads of practice. Plus, it's easier to do on someone else, because you can reach everything that much better. I end up having to redo mine half the time. Roll up your trouser cuffs, Johnny. That ought to finish your transformation."

"Oh. Right. But let's take a selfie first, yeah? I want to immortalise this moment." John glanced around for a good spot and then pointed at St. George's Hall, which was lit up in all colours of... Well. What else, right? It wasn't as visible as it could be, what with it still being light and all, but it'd do fine. What's more, he suddenly had a brilliant idea."Oh, and another thing..."

At this point, he might as well admit he was bi and actually become a real couple because really, it couldn't get much gooier than this, Paul concluded as he more or less surrendered to the rather intimate way John was embracing him as they snapped a few selfies. How did it escalate into this, anyway? John had both arms wrapped tightly around Paul's middle now. Talk about turning it up to eleven. Speaking of which, the person walking up to them didn't seem to do 'subtle' any more than John did. But what could she possibly want from them?

"I'm sorry to interrupt lads, but I just had to. You're exactly what I'm looking for!" John frowned at the drag queen who'd interrupted them at the most unfortunate moment, not sure what he had done to deserve such a fate. He'd been about to demand one last selfie, which would have been the most romantic one yet if John had any say in the matter. What was so important that his plans had to be thwarted?

"Anything we can help you with, Dorothy?"

No man should look that good in a dress, Paul thought as he gave him (her?) a once-over. Sure, it was all just that much flashier than the original costume, but still: it looked very good. He took a moment to take in the glittery red pumps, size canoe, the slightly too orange auburn wig, braided into a perfect copy of Judy Garland's plaits in the Wizard of Oz, and the blue frock which was a lot simpler in the classic film.

"Oh, thank fuck you're locals," Dorothy exclaimed, instantly replacing the affected Southern American drawl with a heavy Scouse accent. Speke, by the sound of it. "Are you in the parade?"

"No," John said, whilst Paul shook his head. "Why?"

"Do you want to be?"

John caught Paul's eyes. "Do you?" Apparently, he didn't know what he wanted, because he just shrugged. It wasn't a definite no, though, John could tell.

"I'll take that as a yes, then, shall I?" Not a second later, Dorothy turned to walk off, leaving John and Paul momentarily paralysed. "Well come along, lads, we haven't got all day!"

"Well," Paul grinned as he grabbed John's wrist. "I guess this means we're in the parade..."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's Every Brothers Medley:
> 
> Devoted To You: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LboNYB_oKTY  
> Oh, True Love: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_DtteP17Nk  
> Let It Be Me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvA-STM7oJk
> 
> Other songs mentioned/implied:
> 
> Fats Domino - Blueberry Hill: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQQCPrwKzdo  
> Jerry Lee Lewis - Great Balls Of Fire: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jt0mg8Z09SY  
> The Platters - The Great Pretender: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s08AOiRmy3w  
> Nat King Cole - Mona Lisa - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=th-QbzRyMIE

Paul soon discovered that everyone knew Dorothy, and Dorothy knew everyone. Or rather, Marvin did, because that turned out to be his real name. They'd found that out when they'd ducked into the train station to stow away their bags, and they'd been properly introduced.

Whilst John and Paul stuffed their essentials into their pockets, Marv - who they kept calling Dorothy half the time - had explained that he was with the organisation, and that he only ever wore drag on special occasions, and that they had to get a move on, which they would have, except at the last second, John changed his mind and pulled out the massive flag which was easily big enough to double as a bedsheet. Finally, they were on their way, struggling to keep up with Marv, who they kept calling Dorothy and who was walking on those platform stilettos as if they were a pair of trainers.

"So Dorothy," John panted as they turned into a street which was closed off to visitors, "what are we supposed to be doing anyway?"

"In a nutshell? Look cute." Marvin slowed down enough to walk at their side, and reached into his wicker basket to dig up a couple of brightly coloured wristbands which he handed to them. "Put these on and don't lose them. They'll grant you access to the backstage area and the after party."

Now it was Paul's turn to be curious. "We still don't know what it is we're supposed to do, or why it had to be us."

"Alright, then. Do you know the Petticoats pub?"

John shook his head no because he didn't know the place, but he noticed Paul nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that's just off Temple Street, right? I've been meaning to go there ever since the Lindy Bop over in Aintree closed. It's a fifties style bar," he explained when he noticed John's expression, which probably looked every bit as confused as he felt. Well, that solved that mystery. Of course, Paul would know where to go for old-fashioned Rock 'n' Roll music.

"Right. My husband is the owner." They were ushered into a narrow alleyway now, beyond which they could already see the starting point where all the participants were gathered. "In return for being a festival sponsor, he gets to promote the pub. That's where you come in. Nothing serious required; just sit in the back of an oldtimer, have fun and interact with the audience a bit. If you spot someone who looks like they'd enjoy the pub, give them a flyer. That's all there is to it. We used to have two couples, but the boys who were supposed to participate broke up a few days ago. I've been running around all day to find a couple to replace them, and here you are."

From the moment they entered the secluded area, Paul wasn't sure where to look first. Everywhere he looked were groups of people standing around, talking, laughing, having drinks... There had to be hundreds of them, if not more. Some were fixing their makeup or costumes, others were lounging about, and there were quite a few couples dancing to the music that washed over them from a cluster of loudspeakers. It looked like every possible demographic was represented. The largest group by far was the one paying homage to Michael Causer, the gay teenager who was beaten to death seven years earlier. Paul supposed some of those people had to be his family. He felt his heart ache for them.

John, meanwhile, was equally impressed even though he'd planned to act as if it was just another day. It was simply too much fun to see all those different people. The leather community was well represented as always, and he couldn't help but grin at some of the outfits (or lack thereof, since half of them had their arse hanging out, and some wore just barely enough to cover their naughty bits). They were a friendly bunch, though, and several of them waved merrily when they noticed John watching them. One even blew him a kiss, which sent John into a fake swoon and that, in turn, resulted in Paul shaking his head in mock exasperation. 'I can't take him anywhere', he signalled to the men in leather. They appeared to agree.

Much of the participants were far less obvious, though. Over there was a group of emergency workers gathered around an Ambulance Rapid Response car, clad in their respective uniforms. If the Fire Brigade and the Police had brought cars too, he couldn't see them. He half expected they'd be there somewhere.

Close to them were a few footballers. Or, at least John thought they were. The men were wearing the exact same things Everton and LFC players would wear during a match, but he didn't care for football so he had no idea if any of them actually played at either club. Not very far from the Causer family were people in all kinds of traditional costumes from all over the world. Some were easy to identify: China, Russia, Finland, Japan, India, Holland, Mexico, Spain... But the group was too large to see them all, and John hadn't a clue which countries some of them were representing. He might have tried if his attention hadn't been drawn to something else. "Paul, look! I think that's our ride over there."

It was almost disappointing to discover the car wasn't a pink Cadillac. Paul would have put money on that if someone had started a betting pool. Good thing that never happened, then, because the car next to which Dorothy was talking to a man with bright ginger hair (who was the embodiment of the Edwardian Teddy Boy in his Elephant's Trunk and DA, waistcoat, drainies, and long drape jacket) was a turquoise 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible.

Sat on the boot, with their feet on the backseat, were the girls they'd been told about. Just like him and John, they were dressed in style too. One had her hair up in victory rolls, which went very well with the black halter top and the red skirt she had on - complete with petticoats, of course - whilst the other was sporting a Marilyn Monroe kind of hairstyle with big flowers on one side. Instead of a skirt or dress, she had a yellow, off-the-shoulder top on, and black pedal pushers. Apparently, Dorothy had just said something funny, because all of them were breaking down in peals of laughter.

"Care to let us in on the joke? I'm always up for a laugh," John jested as they joined the small group. So far, it looked like a fun bunch of people.

"There you are, I thought you'd done a runner," Dorothy grinned, motioning for them to come nearer. "Everyone, these are John and Paul. They've agreed to replace Andy and Leonard. Lads, these lovely young ladies are Jen and Val, and this over here is my husband, Victor. He'll be your chauffeur this evening."

They'd barely finished introducing themselves when there was some movement within the masses. Apparently, the parade was about to start. Paul reckoned it was about time to do away with the sunglasses, if only because it was bloody difficult to use eye drops whilst wearing specs, but also because the sun was setting. The skin around his eyes felt a lot better now, and he didn't get any odd looks, so he supposed it looked fairly normal, too. If only his eyes would stop feeling so scratchy...

"Alright, Paul? Eyes still bothering you, are they?"

"Just a bit, John. No permanent damage done, mate. Stop worrying about it," he shrugged, grateful for the subject to be dropped when Victor started the engine. Most of the other vehicles they'd seen were already moving, and the few that weren't were supposed to be somewhere behind them, so Paul waited for John to take his place, and then squeezed himself into the remaining space, on the far left side.

Thank fuck for big American cars, he thought as he moved a bit closer to John. Anything smaller wouldn't have accommodated the four of them and even now he was a bit scared he might fall off. John seemed to be thinking the same because he wrapped his left arm tightly around Paul's waist. When it was their turn to go, Dorothy handed one end of John's oversized rainbow flag to Paul, and the other to Jen who sat at the far right, so it'd billow behind them. Feeling giddy with excitement, and more than a little nervous, Paul nudged his knee into John's. "Here we go then, eh? No going back now!"

_~*~_

Far sooner than John would have liked, he found himself following Paul into the Petticoats pub. They could have gone to the official after party, which is where Jen and Val had gone after exchanging phone numbers with Paul, who had his work cut out for him because they had met loads of interesting people, and John had basically ordered him to email all of their contact details the moment he'd get home. On second thought, it'd probably have to wait until after the hangover would clear up. He wasn't drunk yet, mind. Neither of them was. But John had made it one of his goals to make sure he would be, and with that in mind, he joined the queue at the bar.

Paul liked this place. It was loads better than the Lindy Bop had ever been. They served food here, for one thing, so he'd taken the opportunity to order a cheeseburger and a Coke. From the booth he quickly confiscated whilst John waited for their order, Paul scrutinised the pub. He loved the old photos of stars from the forties, fifties, and sixties, which covered the walls. Some of them were even autographed. There was a big jukebox in the corner, a vintage one by the looks of it. It had those colourful tubes that slowly changed colour. It wasn't playing, though.

A small part of the pub had been sacrificed to make room for a DJ who had just taken 'Blueberry Hill' off of one turntable whilst 'Great Balls of Fire' played on the other, and if he saw it right, he'd just grabbed a Platters single to replace the Fats Domino one. Apparently, he took requests as well, and Victor and Dorothy - who he should really call Marvin now that he'd changed out of his costume and into normal clothes - would sometimes say a few words into a microphone. All in all, it was a really great atmosphere and Paul was sure to come back soon.

"What's all this then," Paul laughed when John finally made it to the booth. He'd taken his time ordering, and then he had himself a lovely little heart-to-heart with Marv. Long story short: he was no longer unemployed. One of the blokes whose place he and Paul had taken, used to work behind the bar, Marv had said, and now they needed a new barman. It hadn't even taken John much trouble to get the job: he'd slipped behind the bar to prove he knew how to draw a pint, showed his ability to carry five plates at once and said he could start whenever they needed him. The rest, as they say, was history. To celebrate, he'd splurged a little, aside from the burgers and fizzy drinks, he'd also gotten a big portion of chips - which bore the American name 'fries' here - and a pint of stout each.

His reply was simple: "we're celebrating."

"This food is bloody great, isn't it?" John made a show of licking his fingers clean, and half thought of ordering some more. He wasn't the only one eating with gusto, either. Paul had pretty much hoovered up his hamburger and was now staring at his empty plate as if he was trying to conjure up another one out of thin air. "I could get another one if you're still hungry."

"I'm not. In fact, I'm stuffed. It's just that it tasted so good, you know? Makes me want to eat more, though I wouldn't know where to put it." He grinned sheepishly at John. "I think I want to move in here. The idea of having to eat my own shitty cooking for breakfast is too much to bare."

"That bad, is it?"

He chewed his bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. "My food comes with a disclaimer: 'consume at your own peril'. I actually poisoned people. Twice. And I won't even tell you how often I got the runners from something I made. It's pathetic."

John gasped in feigned shock. "You mean to say you're not perfect? Way to ruin my image of you, Paul. How will I ever live with the shock?"

"You'll manage." Shaking his head, Paul drained his Coke. One drink down, one to go. He wanted to put off getting pissed a little longer, if possible. They'd had a few beers after the parade before they were invited to Petticoats, and the lager and shots they'd had in the afternoon hadn't completely left his system yet, either. Frankly, he was getting tipsy. Leaning back, his eyes fell on the bar. "Marv looks dead on his feet."

Paul wasn't wrong. Behind the bar, Vic and Marv were slow dancing to Nat King Cole's 'Mona Lisa', though they were barely moving at all. Marvin's eyes were closed and his head rested against Vic's chest. He looked half asleep but then if the short time they'd spent in his company were an indication of how his day had been, it wasn't any wonder. It was a sweet image, though, and it just looking at the simple display of affection made John wish he could lean on Paul like that. He could always ask, he supposed. There were several more couples and there was that little chat he'd had with the DJ earlier...

He slowly got to his feet and caught the eye of the DJ, who gave him the thumbs up. Smirking in a way that was supposed to look innocent, he then offered his hand to Paul. "May I have this dance?"

"Oh alright, then. But I'm leading." Something told Paul he was going to be getting more than he bargained for. He didn't know why; it wasn't as if John looked like the cat who ate the canary or something. Not that he had any idea how such a cat would look, but if he did, then the way John was smirking probably came close. And sure enough, no sooner had the last chords of died away or the DJ announced what he called 'a little medley for all you lovebirds out there'. Paul threw John a suspicious glare, which was met with a smug little grin.

It all went perfectly according to plan. 'Devoted To You' seamlessly faded into 'Oh, True Love', and as far as he could tell, Paul was fine with it. A bit embarrassed, maybe, but he was a lot more indulging than John had expected. He didn't know many straight men who'd be this blasé about it all, though. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice began to wonder if that said something about the straight men John knew, or whether that might mean Paul wasn't as adverse to gay love as he'd assumed. Whichever it was, he supposed he'd find out eventually.

The final song in the medley was 'Let It Be Me' and by then, John could swear he could feel his teeth rotting on the spot. It wasn't like him at all to get this sentimental, with anyone, especially considering the unfortunate fact that they weren't even together... Yet. But this... Well, if this wasn't a reason to step out of character and make blatantly obvious what he wanted, then John didn't know what was. Maybe he'd get diabetes just from hearing these songs in short succession, but it'd be worth it if it helped his cause.

Feeling bold, he conveniently forgot his promise to keep it platonic. It wasn't as if Paul was going to risk a scene by telling him to bugger off, was he? So, the moment the third song began, he lay his head on Paul's shoulder and nuzzled his neck a bit, just because he could, whilst congratulating himself on the excellent choice of music. Over the top, yes, but at least it got the message across, didn't it? Maybe he could get away with...

Fighting back a giggle, Paul firmly grabbed John's hand and moved it back up a few inches so it'd be on his lower back again. It amused him a lot when those fingers crept lower and lower, but he had to draw the line somewhere or John would just keep pushing. "Why do I get the feeling your fingerprints are all over that medley?"

"Who, me? I wouldn't." John blinked furiously at Paul, pouting in feigned hurt for good measure.

"This one was for all the lovers out there, especially for the two lads you've all seen at the parade. Cheers for helping us out, boys!"

The look on John's face was worth a million. So was the embarrassed groan he uttered when his blatant lie was exposed not five seconds after he'd told it. This time, Paul couldn't hold back his laughter. "You're right, John, you'd never...."

_~*~_

It was well past midnight when Paul caught a bus home. Being more than a little drunk, but somehow still aware enough to realise he could either take a seat or land on his bum anyway, he clumsily crashed down next to an elderly lady. He flashed her a very drunken smile by means of an apology. "Oops, sorry. I nearly sat on your lap, didn't I?"

"That's alright, son," she said, patting his knee like a grandmother would. Paul wished he still had a grandmother... Perhaps this lady would be willing to fill the spot... "Did you have a good time at the parade, then?"

"Yeah!"

Was that too loud? People were looking at him funny. Maybe he'd talked a bit louder than he should. Then again, maybe nan was deaf? You couldn't tell such a thing from looking at a person, could you? Well. Unless they wore be of those thingies... Erm... Hearing thingies. Then you could tell. Paul looked sideways. Nope, nan wasn't wearing one. Not on that side, anyway. Maybe she lost it. Maybe it was stolen! Ah, rotten bastards... Who'd so something like that to a sweet old lady? If Paul saw them, he'd surely... Well. Do something.

It was a really long ride. That was Paddy's Wigwam over there. He didn't live anywhere near there, so Paul supposed it was still going to be a really really really really... What? Never mind.

"I'm a little bit drunk. I think," he muttered in a conspiratory tone at nan, leaning in close so she could hear without her hearing thingy.

"Aid!"

That was the word he was looking for. Oh. Did he just yell that out loud? "Did I say that out loud, nan?" He had whispered really very quietly this time, breathing into her ear again so he wouldn't be scowled at for shouting. She had pearl earrings in. Classy, that.

"Yes, dear," she grinned.

Why did this ride take so long? Paul sighed. He really had a great day. Especially the part with John. JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn.... He couldn't think of anyone else. Would he be thinking of Paul too? Maybe he should ask. With an effort, he wiggled his fingers into his left trouser pocket. Nothing. Other side, then. Nope. Sorry, nan; didn't mean to elbow you.

Finally, Paul found his phone. What was the PIN code again? Erm... Fuck. He couldn't recall. Feeling the panic rising in his throat - he hoped it was that, and not the drink making a return trip because nan definitely wouldn't want him as her grandson anymore if he'd throw up all over her pretty... lavender? lilac? periwinkle? Well. Some sort of purple... Erm...dress. Frowning, he looked down at his pretty pink iPhone. How had he managed to unlock it? Oh. Right.

"I thought I forgot my password," he confided in nan. "But. It knows my fingerprints. Clever, isn't it?"

"Very clever, dear."

Paul felt all warm inside when he saw John's name in his list of contacts and eagerly tapped the little phone icon. It rang, and rang, and rang, and then voicemail. Didn't John want to talk to him, then? Oh, wait. His phone had died. That was really sad. For a phone to die. With a deep sigh, Paul slumped in his seat, feeling bereft. Whatever that meant. He couldn't recall, but he thought that was what he felt. He sniffed noisily, to stop his nose from running. He wished that would stop his eyes from leaking too.

"Are you alright, son?"

He'd nearly forgotten about nan! Bad Paul! What kind of grandson forgot his nan? He turned to look at her and smiled through his tears. She smiled back and gave him something. A gift? For him? Great! He liked gifts.

It was a tissue. How did she know that was just what he wanted? Paul unfolded it ever so carefully, appreciating how it seemed to get bigger each time. Now it was a rectangle. Now it was square. Rectangle. Square. Magical! Best gift ever. He giggled a bit at the trumpeting sound when he blew his nose. See, only a perfect tissue could make him do that. He'd treasure it always, right along with the snot and the tears. He smiled at nan again. He loved her. Everyone should have a nan like that, Paul thought, as he rested his head on her shoulder. She patted his leg again. They understood each other, he was sure of it.

"I'm in love, nan," he murmured, feeling wonderfully sleepy.

"That's good to hear, laddie."

Paul thought so, too.


	10. Chapter 10

"Good morning!"

Paul winced at the sound of Mike's voice. So loud. So bright. So grating... Not to mention that sound when he turned the newspaper to the next page. Annoying as fuck. Squinting against the piercing daylight, he found the largest mug they owned and filled it to the brim with black coffee, after which he collapsed at the breakfast table.

"Had fun, did you? Heard your conversation with the toilet bowl," Michael said cheerily, each syllable pounding into Paul's throbbing brain like a pickaxe. Was fratricide still something people frowned upon these days? Hoping the kid would show some mercy on a dying man, Paul slowly lowered his forehead onto his arms. Much darker. Much better. Still too much noise. "Sounded like you had a lot to get off your chest."

Without lifting his head from the safety of his forearm, Paul flashed his brother a two-fingered salute. He was right, but still. Also: nobody should laugh that hard at their own jokes. Especially when they weren't even funny. Paul wasn't amused, anyway. The whole thing had ceased to be amusing when he found himself stranded somewhere in Knowsley. Who the hell fell asleep on the bus anyway? Well, he had, obviously...

He'd managed to make it to their flat somewhere around half two by which time even Janeway couldn't be arsed to welcome him home anymore. Maybe her sleeping with Mike was for the better, though. Probably would've ended tripping over her anyway. You know, considering the state he was in. How he managed to reach the loo, Paul didn't know. All he knew was that he'd spent ages spewing up everything he had before he'd even taken off his shoes or jacket. At least, he still had those on when he'd woken up on the loo floor, sometime around five.

He hadn't taken them off then, either. Climbing up the stairs and walking twenty feet to his bed was all he could muster anyway. And now, something had died and was decomposing in his mouth, his head was being remodelled using heavy machinery, and it was his turn to clean the litter box. Apparently. Mike just said so, so Paul supposed it was probably true.

"It's your cat too, you know." The use of cold logic should be forbidden under certain circumstances. Particularly at those times when the mere thought of scooping up cat shit made Paul's stomach churn to the point of him having to press a hand to his mouth whilst praying he wouldn't throw up all over the kitchen table. And still, Mike was relentless. "She can't help it that you got monged out."

"Bugger off, Mike." He had enough of this abuse. Bloody kids and their lack of empathy... Dragging his half-empty mug of coffee along, Paul shuffled towards the stairs, hoping a hot bath might help. "I'll do it later."

"You made the paper."

Paul was back in the sitting room in the blink of an eye, and his head was instantly a lot clearer too. Funny how that worked. "What?"

"There's a whole extra section focusing on the festival, with loads of photies. You're in one of them." Smirking, Mike held up the insert, tauntingly moving it out of reach when Paul made a grab for it.

"Give that here," he growled, plopping back down in his chair when Mike surrendered the fight.

Sure enough, there he was, sat on the boot of that car, holding up one end of their flag with his left hand, whilst the other seemed to have disappeared behind John's back, whose arm was wrapped around Paul's middle in a rather intimate way. He and John were both laughing, but it was the adoring looks on both their faces that seemed to have caught the editor's eye, considering the caption. 'Blast from the past: in the macho Teddy Boy culture of the fifties, these lads would not have been able to show their love so openly.'

If he had to guess, Paul would think the snapshot was taken early on in the parade, when he hadn't grown tired of waving that flag yet. They'd eventually given up on that and draped it across the boot instead. The few lines underneath the photo left as little to the imagination as that image did, though it made him wonder why the girls hadn't been mentioned in the caption. They'd been much more hands-on than he and John had been, even if they were just waving to the audience in that particular shot. Still, he supposed it was good publicity for Petticoats, so Victor and Marvin wouldn't mind either way.

"Guess that means you're out of the closet, then," Mike deadpanned, snapping Paul out of his train of thought.

He wearily rubbed his forehead. Not this shite again, he thought, taking a scalding swig of coffee. "I came out a decade ago, Mike, and you know bloody well it didn't surprise anyone. I was never really in the closet, you know."

"Oh weren't you? So, Giovanni knows you're bi, then, does he? Assuming that's him with you in that picture. Could've guessed he'd be ginger. You're so predictable."

"His name is John, and he's auburn, not ginger. And no, I haven't told him yet," Paul muttered, getting to his feet again. "Shut up."

"That's what they call being in the closet. And it looks ginger to me, son," he laughed loudly when Paul left the room, taking the special with him so he could scan it.

"Fuck off, Mike!"

_~*~_

Now that the afternoon was just about gone, and with it his headache, John felt the time was right to check his email. But first, he had to tend to his Facebook.

"Christ on a crutch!" He'd only been offline for a fucking day, yet everything was lighting up like a bloody Christmas tree. Sixteen friendship requests. One hundred and twelve notifications. And apparently, he had messages too, but he rarely read those anyway. Going through everything would take hours, so he decided to make his own updates first before finding out what embarrassing crap had been posted on his wall, or how bad the pictures were in which he undoubtedly had been tagged.

No sooner had he updated his work details, or the first likes and comments poured in. Didn't these people have a life of their own? 'Drinks are on you,' was the first comment, posted by one Richard Starkey. 'Shut up and get back to your pasta, Ringo,' John replied six seconds later. 'I didn't know mentally handicapped people could own pubs,' George posted, followed up by 'who else would be daft enough to hire you?'

"Hey George, go drink some of that bleach you're supposed to clean the bathroom with," John shouted over his shoulder, before typing a reply: 'Do you want to continue living here, son?'

It went on like that for a bit, with a few other people joining in the banter, but he could read between the lines. They were happy for him. Placing bets on when he'd get sacked, no doubt, but happy nonetheless. With the discussion still going, he popped back into his profile page to change his relationship status from 'single' to 'it's complicated' and then, of course, his so-called friends had a go at that ('Complicated? As if! You're the easiest lay in Liverpool. LOL' 'Just grab it and pull, mate, anyone can do it. Even you.'). At least they couldn't say he didn't keep them entertained. Frankly, John couldn't really care less. He had already moved onto something else.

As it turned out, there were loads of people called Paul McCartney on Facebook. John had not expected that, but he wasn't going to be deterred by it, either. After clicking a few profiles which he couldn't rule out based on the profile picture, he finally struck gold on one that had a picture of a cat. Cute cat, by the way. Calico.

At first, he thought this J. Paul McCartney wasn't the one he was looking for either, but then he saw the cover photo of two lads in Colour Run T-shirts, being showered in orange powder. One of them was definitely Paul. His face was barely recognisable due to the insane amount of yellow, pink, blue, and green dye that was covering most of his upper body, but John would recognise those long shins (he knew they'd be hairy, and they were!) and that childlike energy anywhere. The slightly taller lad had a very similar build, with equally long legs. John suspected (and hoped) that was Mike, and not... Well, someone else. He quickly clicked the friendship request button and decided to explore the profile.

_~*~_

This called for music, Paul decided when he connected his phone to the computer. Now that he saw how many images and videos were on there, he understood why his battery had died. He fired up his oldies playlist on Spotify and smiled happily when 'Love Is Strange' began to play. This was definitely one to play loudly, so he turned up the volume and sang along at the top of his voice. He was just hamming up the middle eight (more specifically, he was growling 'come here, loverboy!' In his own impression of Sylvia) when Mike walked in, holding a USB stick.

"Alright, alright, I'm here, now stop calling out to me," he laughed when Paul swivelled his chair and crooned 'oh, loverboy...' whilst trying not to collapse into a heap of giggles. "Thought you might want these," he said, handing the thing to Paul. "I think you'll like some of them."

"Cheers, Mickey," Paul chuckled, still in his high-pitched Sylvia voice. "How many did you take?"

He lowered the volume to an acceptable background level and connected the USB stick, which, according to the window that popped up, contained a laundry list of photos. He knew Mike had been in the city centre too. Most of his photography was architecture and landscapes, but he was very good at portraits as well, and he'd attended many events in and around Liverpool over the years. In fact, some of those photos had gotten him into the art college in the first place.

Mike sat down on the bed, his earlier taunting long since ceased. "Don't know; haven't uploaded them all yet, but I reckon about a thousand. Maybe more. I wanted to edit these first because you're in them." This was surprising to Paul. He hadn't seen Mike anywhere.

"I am? Where were you?"

"Around. I spotted you a few times, but I didn't want to intrude. I reckon we must've taken similar routes." He paused a moment to stare at the computer screen, where a progress bar ever so slowly filled as the files were transferred. "Paul... you really like this John fellow, don't you?"

"Yeah, Mikey, I think I do."

"Then why don't you tell him the truth? All of it, I mean."

"I can't," Paul sighed, dragging his hands through his hair. It was hard enough to stick to his decision to just be friends without Mike joining John's ranks. "Too much has happened. I can't go down that road again. It's too... I just can't, alright?"

"You're going to deny yourself happiness because of that?" Mike shook his head. He looked genuinely concerned and for a moment, he reminded Paul so much of their mother it hurt. Except for that stubborn look in his eye. That was the same look their dad used to give when they tried to defy him when they were kids. "That's no way to live, Paul, you need to forgive yourself and start trusting people again. Why not now? You need to let yourself off the hook."

Not quite convinced, Paul shrugged. "Maybe you're right. I'll think about it."

"Think a little less for once, Paul, and just feel. You deserve to be happy again. It's been too long." He got up and hugged Paul from behind, just like mum used to do. "Tell him. I think you've found someone really special in him. If you don't take my word for it, let those photies do the talking. Everything you need to know is there."

_~*~_

Did Paul even use Facebook anymore? There was so little there for John to find. The about page was basically empty. It said his hometown was Liverpool, which John already knew, and it stated his date of birth, which was also old news. The family tab listed a brother, but nothing else was filled out, or maybe it was all friends only. Either way, not much to investigate.

His wall was mostly empty, and the few posts he did see, didn't tell him a whole lot about Paul other than that he used to play a few games (Words With Friends, Candy Crush Saga, FarmVille...) at some point. Done so rather actively too, especially that last one by the overwhelming amount of posts asking for, or offering this, that, and the other thing. By the looks of it, he'd been one of those types who figured out how to cheat in order to produce loads of eggs and foals, cheeky bastard. John hadn't really expected that; he seemed more of an 'abide by the rules' kind of person. It was pretty useless information, though, and the few other updates that were on there could have been anyone's.

The photos weren't very revealing, either. All he could see were Paul's old profile photos (all four of them), and his cover photos.

The former wasn't too exciting. The cat appeared twice: once in the current picture, and once more when she was little. It was a very cute photo, though, of Paul holding her close to his face which was scrunched up because the kitten was scratching his nose. John didn't think twice and saved that one to his computer. There was one with a blond kid, who was tagged as Mike McCartney, so John supposed that was the younger brother even though he didn't look like Paul. Well, maybe very vaguely. The last was a family photo, taken at Disneyland Paris, in which Paul couldn't have been a day over six. No doubt it was him, though. The eyes were a dead giveaway. John concluded that Paul resembled his father, though his eyes were clearly his mother's. Mike was the other way around, which explained why the brothers didn't really look alike.

The cover photos weren't too interesting. One shot of the Three Graces taken from the Wirral, a nice shot of the Houses of Parliament in London during sunset, a close-up of a guitar, another Liverpool picture - this one looked like it was taken from the radio tower - and lastly, another childhood picture of Paul and Mike, from roughly a decade ago by the looks of it.

The only interesting thing about that one, other than that Paul apparently never suffered from serious acne or the awkwardness most people went through during puberty, was that twinkle in his eye didn't show up in the photo. Still cute as hell, obviously, and he was clearly already getting into the whole fifties thing going by his clothes and hair, but still. John couldn't put his finger on it, but something was off about the way he had draped his arm around Mike's shoulders. There was a vulnerability there, he supposed. Not what you might expect from boys in their early teens, but it was a gorgeous photo nonetheless, so he downloaded that one too.

Hoping to find some more useful information there, John clicked on Mike's profile. That had a lot more photos and loads of recent updates, as well as a laundry list of relatives for John to investigate. He felt like a bonafide Sherlock Holmes just then. All he needed was a hat and a pipe to match...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the following chapters, there will be a fair bit of angst. Don't worry, you'll still be privy to John's sordid thoughts and such, but you'll learn a bit more about the boys' backgrounds.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had a terrible migraine the other day. To make up for it, this chapter is extra long. We'll find out what Paul does for a living, and we're getting ready for the Harrython.

"Alright, John. Found it then, have you? Love the specs, very Buddy Holly." How could anyone look that good when they were half drowned? Paul didn't know, but the sight of John sure made him feel all warm and happy inside. From the way his hair stuck to his forehead, to the redness in his cheeks from the cold rain, and the way his soaked clothes hugged his body... It was nearly impossible for Paul to hide how glad he was to see John.

"Cheers. Got them this week, actually. To fit in better at work, right?" Of course, that wasn't the sole reason for getting those particular frames, but what Paul didn't know, couldn't hurt him, so John wisely kept his mouth shut about that.

He's so full of shit, Paul thought affectionately, having caught more than enough of John's expression to know he wasn't being truthful. Besides, in order to have them now, he would've had to have gone to the optometrist's on Monday: before his first shift at Petticoats. He didn't mind, though. Didn't mind in the least that John had been showing such an interest in the things Paul liked. "Right. How was your first week, then? Settling in alright?"

"Just fine. Didn't break any glasses at all," John grinned, mentally patting himself on the back for getting away with the little lie about the glasses. "Vic reckons I'm a keeper. So, can I come in then, or are we watching the films out here?

"Well, since you asked so nicely, be my guest." Paul stepped aside, allowing John to brush past him. He was wearing that chocolate-scented deodorant again, Paul noticed. So far, he hadn't been able to find out what it was. Maybe now would be his chance to adapt some of John's habits too. Realising he was behaving like a lovesick teenager again, Paul mentally shook himself into a more relaxed attitude. After all, they had a long day ahead.

A few things stood out when John shrugged out of his jacket and swept his rain-soaked hair out of his face. Firstly, Paul was holding a guitar in his hand. He hadn't noticed before, what with the door blocking his view. And then there was the decor of the flat... "Why do I get the sense that the nearest IKEA has a plaque with your photo and the words 'customer of the year' hanging somewhere in the shop?"

Paul guffawed loudly, glad to be somewhat back on solid ground. He didn't think he was quite that popular yet, but he sure had spent a lot of money there and regularly popped in for the odd bits and bobs. Well... Maybe popped in was a bit understated, since it was rather out of the way. He basically had one go-to place, and that was it. If they sold whatever he needed, be it candles, knives, or towels, then that's where he went, even if other shops were nearer or cheaper. Mike never ceased to be amazed by Paul's dedication and had at one point given Paul a massive, Swedish flag, which he'd promptly hung on his bedroom wall. "Someone has to keep them from going under, you know."

Laughing, John did a three-sixty in the middle of the small hallway. "Is there anything in here that didn't come from there?"

"I'd have to think about that one. Wanna come in and see the rest, then, or are you planning on standing there and dripping all over my laminate floor?" Without waiting for a reply, Paul turned on his heels, gesticulating casually as he played tour guide in the little flat he called home. "Loo's over there. Upstairs is that way. Not much to see there: two bedrooms, one with a tiny en suite - that's Mike's, and another with a balcony, which is my room. We share the big bathroom, but it's pretty much mine. Not much to see, really. We spend most of our time right here in the sitting room..."

"So Mike technically has two bathrooms?"

"Well yeah, in a way. His is just a sink and a shower, you know. Can't swing a cat in there. The main bathroom has a bathtub and a toilet, so he kind of has to use that too. But he keeps his things in the small one, and he mostly stays out of mine, so I don't mind. Like I said, my room has the balcony, which is quite large and the room is bigger too. Of course, I pay most of the rent so it's only fair..."

John couldn't help himself. His mind just took over, or maybe it was some other part of his anatomy doing the talking when he flatly said, "So, you have the bigger room, and the bigger bath. Anything else of yours that's bigger than Mike's, or are those things just compensation?"

"You would want to know, wouldn't you," Paul laughed, egged on by the suggestive look on John's face. "Sorry to disappoint you, John, but I'm going to keep you in the dark on that one." He popped into the kitchen where he conjured a tea towel from one of the cupboards, which he casually tossed at John. Straight in the gob: ten points to team Macca. Whilst John was drying off, Paul hung his guitar back on the wall where he kept it and went to put on a record of various hits from the fifties.

Evidently, Paul was very fond of the colour blue. Or John hoped he did anyway because the colour was omnipresent. Surprisingly enough, it didn't make the flat look cold or boring. Probably because of the splashes of teal and purple here and there. Or the more personal touches, such as the musical instruments: a pair of guitars hanging over what looked like an antique piano. Probably a family heirloom, John mused. As much as he hated to admit it, it looked tasteful and welcoming. More so than his own flat anyway, which was a much more casually thrown together affair. He pointed at the upright. "Found something you didn't get at IKEA."

A short bark of a laugh escaped. "You caught me, John. But don't tell anyone or they'll revoke my customer of the year award." As the kettle was starting to gently bubble, he quickly cleared away some of the bits and bobs he had scattered around whenever he'd noodle on the guitar. "That's been in the family for... Erm... Eighty, ninety years? I don't know. I think my great-great-grandfather first bought that." Not sure what the history lesson was for, Paul shrugged and proceeded to gather the empty mugs, which he went to put into the dishwasher.

"Wow." John gently glided his hands across the keys, feeling a whole new level of respect for the thing. "Do you play?"

"A bit, but I'm not very good." He slammed the dishwasher shut and pressed the 'on' button at the same time John got up to saunter into the kitchen, probably attracted by the kettle which had just switched off with an audible click. "Do you? Play, I mean."

"Barely. I had maybe three lessons but I got bored." Paul nodded, his mind clearly focused on making the tea. John waited a bit, appreciating the precision of Paul's movements, not to mention his beautiful hands. Such long, elegant fingers... He wished he could hold them again like he had a week earlier, and just had to 'accidentally' touch them when he accepted the mug of tea. No sooner had the quick 'ta', mate' left his lips, or John nearly spilt the steaming liquid all over himself when the doorbell suddenly rang. Clearly, Paul had no idea who it could be, either.

Frowning, he glanced at his watch. His last student had left some ten minutes ago, moments before John arrived, and he didn't expect any other visitors. He didn't really feel like opening that door. For all he knew it could be an auntie and as much as he loved them, they always stuck around for ages which would seriously jeopardise his Harry Potter schedule. Still, it was rude to just leave them standing there so he plastered a smile on his face and answered the door. "Phoebe? Did you forget something?" If she had, he couldn't imagine what, though you never knew. From the corner of his eye, Paul saw John emerging with a questioning look on his face. He clearly had no idea why a tiny girl in a ladybird raincoat, matching wellies, and a big guitar case strapped to her back would show up at Paul's door. "John, this is Phoebe, one of my guitar students. Phoebe, this is my good friend John."

"Hi," the little girl said, flashing a smile, though that was aimed more at Paul than at him, John noticed. Of course, he had noticed the 'guitar student' remark, which was news to him. He'd have to ask about that. Obviously, it wouldn't do to bring it up now, because Paul was talking to that girl who sounded a bit stressed out. Her smile had since faded too. "Paul, my mum isn't here yet. She's never late!"

Indeed, she never was. If anything, Jodie always tended to show up early. Sometimes, she'd sit in on the entire lesson. She never missed a chance to showcase herself, so this was odd. Obviously, Paul wasn't going to add to an eight-year-old's stress by acting worried, so he made sure to look unperturbed. "Let's give her a ring then, shall we?"

John wasn't too interested in the conversation so he just poked around a bit, checking which books were on the shelves, looking at photos, leafing through magazines, and not paying any mind to the brief phone call Paul made, or the energetic chatter between the two. He was just looking through the kitchen cupboards when Paul appeared at his side to pour a glass of juice for Phoebe. "That girl has got a massive crush on you," John whispered under his breath, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice.

"I know! At least for kids, it's normal to have that phase. She'll get over it soon enough. Now, her mum... Jodie's great but I swear, her top gets smaller each time she comes to pick up Phoebe." He roughly punched John in the arm when he laughed loudly enough for the little girl to notice. "Shut up, John! I mean, I don't mind an age gap, but there's a limit, you know? I just don't know how to make her see it isn't going to happen without being an arse."

"So don't be an arse. Shouldn't be too difficult. All you have to do is make sure she doesn't take it personally."

"You mean, like being unavailable or something..." For a few seconds, Paul wracked his brain, trying to figure out how to do that without offending a perfectly charming lady. He barely even noticed John had walked away to give Phoebe her juice, though he certainly noticed the hand on the small of his back when John returned. Wondering what that was all about, he looked up to see an expression he knew quite well by now. "Ooh.... You mean that kind of unavailable..."

"Took you long enough," John laughed, wiggling his eyebrows comically. Any chance to make people think he and Paul were together was fine by him. He probably shouldn't enjoy it so much but he did, and he knew exactly how he'd go about it this time. Paul wouldn't know what hit him... "I'm game if you are. Worked last week, didn't it?"

Paul cast John a long, dark look. He did not trust that mischievous smirk. At all. Then again, it could be fun. Knowing John, it most likely would be hilarious and terribly effective in getting the message across. "You are enjoying this far more than you should, John. Alright, I'll play along, but be nice, yeah? I mean it."

"I'm always nice. Darling..." Paul was looking a bit green around the gills. Clearly, he had very little faith in John's ability to let the woman down easy. Well, he'd find out soon enough, because before he could backtrack - and John could plainly see Paul was about to do just that - the doorbell rang. "Oh go on Macca, might as well have fun with it. Cheer up, love. It's showtime..."

This was one situation John knew precisely how to handle. Channelling some of his oldest and dearest friends, he effortlessly slipped into character and sashayed to the hallway. Jodie turned out to be quite pretty, and fairly young. The way Paul made it sound, he'd expected her to be over forty, rather than... What, early to mid-thirties? Something like that. He wasn't lying about the top, though. She was practically spilling out of it. Putting on an exaggerated 'queer' voice, John greeted her as enthusiastically as if she was his long lost BFF. "You must be Jodie! Hi, I'm John. Paul's... Friend."

The woman looked rather taken aback to be welcomed by an unfamiliar and obviously gay man, and her eyebrows flew up at the way John emphasised the word 'friend'. John could just about read her thoughts as if they were written on her forehead. Perhaps he should go for air kisses, John briefly wondered. Then again, maybe later. Beaming, he showed Jodie to the sitting room whilst going ga-ga over the aforementioned piece of clothing. "Can I say how much I just LOVE your blouse! Really brings out your shoulders. And that colour... I've always ADORED fuchsia. It's such a cheerful colour, isn't it? Especially on such a dreadfully gloomy day... Paul darling, Jodie's here. Won't you look at this top? Isn't it just the most amazing thing you've ever seen?"

It was even worse than he'd feared. John's act, that was, not the bright pink top. Paul had actually seen that one before. But John... He was out of control. Where did he get those ridiculously stereotypical mannerisms, and how was he, Paul, supposed to respond to that? Well, too late to back out now, he guessed, so he smiled sweetly whilst thinking of ways to murder John. Would anyone think anything of it if he'd take a tumble off the 15th-floor balcony? It was raining, Paul could always say John had slipped on the wooden floorboards... "Yes, John, it's lovely. Hi, Jodie."

"Lovely, he says. I swear, that man has no sense of fashion whatsoever."

"Well, thank goodness I have you then eh, Johnny?" Paul drawled with a sickly smile, whilst thinking death threats in hopes John would be able to read them in his eyes. His voice, however, remained perfectly warm when he spoke. "Did they manage to fix your car, Jodie?"

"Yes, it was just a simple thing, thankfully," she replied, sounding somewhat deflated. Obviously, she was falling for John's act and possibly wondering if she had missed the signs. Paul felt bad for her. Jodie clearly tried to act naturally, but the confusion was audible in her voice. "You know cars these days. One little loose wire and the whole thing just stops working. Thank you for taking care of Phoebe. I would've hated for her to be out there in the rain all this time. What do I owe you?"

John jumped in, still smiling so broadly, It made his stomach churn. He half expected he'd be spewing up rainbows and glitter before long. "Don't be silly, you don't owe us a thing, love! Phoebe is such a darling child. we didn't mind having her around at all, did we, Paul?" Having this much fun should be illegal, John thought as he ignored another death glare and ever so casually wrapped his arm around Paul's waist. So far, he'd gotten away with everything. His next course of action, should it come to that, would be to lean in for a snuggle, or maybe let his hand slip down a bit.

To John's delight, Paul seemed to give up on trying to convey subliminal messages. Maybe he finally understood he might as well have fun too because slowly, his hand came up to John's head and he softly kissed the top of his hair. He didn't sound so tense anymore, either. "Absolutely, Happy to help."

"Well, thank you anyway," Jodie muttered, her cheeks now turning a shade of crimson that clashed spectacularly with her pink blouse. "Come on, Phoebe, gran is waiting for us, sweetheart. Thanks again, Paul. John, lovely to meet you." Barely ten seconds later, the door closed, and the sound of Phoebe's animated stories about how she'd played her first real song died away, to be replaced by John's howling laughter. It took all of Paul's restraint to stop himself from collapsing in a heap of giggles too. Biting back a chuckle, he admonished John, who was sprawled on the sofa with tears streaming down his face.

"John, you are a menace! I should've known you'd make a mockery of it."

"I didn't," he gasped, struggling to string two words together. "Come on Macca, it was funny. Not to mention, it worked. She will not be throwing herself at you anymore." Having calmed down just a bit, John wiped his eyes, only to break out in peals of laughter again when he met Paul's eyes and the disgruntled look on his face.

"Yeah.... Not sure she'll let Phoebe continue her lessons, either. Not with you practically mounting me right in front of the kid."

"Bollocks, it wasn't that bad. Ooooohhhhh, I haven't laughed this hard in ages," John sighed, finally in control of his breathing again. He took a few deep breaths and sat up. He could tell Paul was on the verge of having a fit of giggles too, which nearly set him off again. Finally, John blurted out the thing he wanted to ask. "So, is that what you do for a living, then? Being a guitar tutor?"

Sensing it was safe to do so, Paul sank down next to John, shaking his head. "No, that's just something to earn some extra money. I do teach, though. I'm a primary school teacher. Or, I will be. I'll be fully licensed at the end of the upcoming school year. That's how I know Phoebe: she was in the class where I did my first apprenticeship."

"I would not have guessed that," John muttered. Somehow, though, he wasn't shocked to hear it. It seemed to fit somehow, especially having seen how easy it was for Paul to talk to that Phoebe kid. "Rather you than me, though. But this tutoring thing... What I wanted to know is, do you teach adults as well?"

"I guess I could," he shrugged. So far, no adults had ever asked for lessons, so he hadn't really thought about it. "Why, do you know anyone who needs tutoring?"

"I might. So... What am I cooking today?"

"I don't know, John," Paul grinned, pushing himself off the sofa. "You only told me what to buy, not what you were going to make. First things first, though: you need to get out of those wet rags before you catch your death. Did you bring your pyjamas?"

Crap. That was going to be a problem. John really hated how his clammy jeans felt against his legs, but he didn't think Paul would like the answer. "No... I don't have any. I always sleep naked. I thought you were joking about the pyjama party thing anyway. Isn't that something kids do?"

"So what? Growing up is overrated, John. Come on, my house, my rules. You can borrow a pair of mine." Paul bit his lip to fight back a girlish chuckle at the way John's eyes widened at the prospect. Maybe he could even make John blush for a change, he thought, so he cheekily added, "If you're nice, I might even let you wear my Harry Potter PJ's."

Bloody hell, John was cute when his eyes and ears turned red. Mission accomplished, Paul mused as John needed a few moments to find an answer. "Do you seriously have Har-... Christ, that's so gay! What kind of straight bloke would wear Harry Potter pyjamas?"

"Well, I don't know, John. Maybe you should go out and find one so you can ask them," Paul shrugged, forcing his voice to sound as if he was just mentioning the weather. Whilst John was processing the latest shock, Paul copied his earlier 'raging queen'-act and swayed out of the room and up the stairs, thinking he might as well get changed too. Seconds later, John came bursting into the bedroom after him.

"Really?!" Before he could finish his rant - or rather: start it - John's mind went blank and he instantly forgot what he was going to say. Then again, it was a sight, a half-dressed Paul... Toned, but not too chiselled. Lean, but not too skinny. Hairy, but only in all the right places. For a long beat, John drank in the sight of those subtly defined muscles. Some people should never wear clothes, of that he was convinced.

"Here," Paul laughed, tossing John a pair of blue and white pyjamas with Snitches all over the bottoms and a big Quidditch print on the front of the top. "I'm keeping the Gryffindor ones for myself."

"I like yours better," he pouted in his best impression of a five-year-old, but Paul merely winked and continued to put on the red-and-cream Gryffindor pyjama top. Huffing slightly, John crashed on the foot of the bed and pulled up his legs, remembering why he'd come storming into the room a few moments ago. With that lovely sight gone, his mind appeared to be working again (not just his mind, though, which was why he chose to sit in a way that would hide that other fully functioning organ). "You could've told me ages ago you aren't straight."

"Yeah, well, you could've asked if I was, rather than assume You of all people should know there are more than two options, you know." Without thinking, Paul unbuckled his belt, stopping dead in his tracks when he heard a sound that was kind of a mix between a hiss and a groan. Frowning, he looked up to see John staring at him with huge eyes. "Do you mind? Bathroom's next-door. You can change there."

"Spoilsport." Completing the insolent child-act by sticking out his tongue, John retreated into the bathroom, hiding his predicament behind the ghastly pyjamas. He knew it: Paul had been flirting after all, and now he was playing hard to get. Well, if that was how it had to be, then John was going to bring his best game thanks to the target himself, who had unwittingly provided John with precious ammunition. As he closed the door behind him, a sneaky little smirk crept upon his face.

This place was a goldmine. Just by going through the cupboards, he could learn a lot about Paul. Just from opening a random drawer and the medicine cabinet, he'd already learnt which over-the-counter medicines, which flavour mouthwash, and which condoms Paul used. Imagine what else he'd find if he'd actually have a better look and start moving things around to see if anything interesting lurked in the back. Yes, he thought as he locked the door and set about his quest of finding every dirty little secret, this was going to be a lot of fun...

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carl Perkins - Sure To Fall: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVK8fapf0ns
> 
> Also, check out the AMAZING version the Beatles did for their BBC radio shows! John and Paul on lead.... of course ;-) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6v3F7vHvAg

Getting John to cook was a great idea, Paul soon discovered. He obviously didn't know where everything was, as he'd never set foot in this kitchen before, but when it came to preparing the food - a pasta dish with chicken and a creamy sauce - he really seemed to know what he was doing, because he worked as methodically as if he did this every day. The food smelt very good, too, so Paul congratulated himself on the brilliant brainfart that had resulted in this promising meal. He couldn't wait to dig in...

Thankfully, the dish which had been given the name 'Pasta Giovannese' was turning out well. It wasn't a previously existing recipe, as far as John knew. Ringo had invented it for him when he explained the situation. Basically, it was so easy to make any halfwit could get it right whilst still giving the impression of actually having created something substantial, which was just about exactly what John had hoped for. The only problem was that he'd spent the whole week practising, and he'd grown sick and tired of the dish by now. Still, none of his Guinea pigs (aka George, but he ate everything he could get his hands on anyway) had experienced any unwanted side effects, and Paul was practically salivating as he helped by finding John the things he needed and by handing the ingredients when it was time to add them, so he was happy to pretend he hadn't had it in ages.

Eventually, his job was done and it was up to John to finish cooking now, which gave Paul the chance to feast his eyes. John's hair had dried up curler than he'd seen it so far, and the focused expression really suited him. It made him look older but in a good way. Not that Paul had never been with anyone older than him before... If anything, that was why he hadn't made a move on John yet. Even after the better part of four years, and many therapy sessions, he was still afraid to get caught in another Rory situation.

Paul swallowed hard, trying to force those memories back into their cave. He knew he'd have to talk about it someday - and probably sooner than later - but he didn't want to ruin the mood with talk of emotional abuse and psychological manipulation. Who'd want to hear about that, or how it made him so depressed he'd allowed himself to gain all that weight, or how that had only made things worse? Paul would bet John had never been fat. He looked really good, in a natural way. Not from the gym, like him, but just effortlessly healthy. Not too skinny and definitely not fat. Paul had loved the way John's body felt in his arms when they danced, and he imagined it'd feel even better to cuddle up against that comfortable chest if ever they'd sleep together.

"Earth to Paul. Come in, Paul." For the past twenty seconds or so, John had been watching Paul's face as he stared into space. There was something dark in there, a level of emotion John hadn't noticed before. He wondered what it was all about, and whether he'd ever learn what those troubling thoughts were. Perhaps he'd have to just ask sometime soon. Perhaps it'd give him the chance to talk about the things he had on his mind as well. For now, though, dinner was ready. "We better eat this shite before it gets cold, right?"

The sound of John's voice abruptly tore Paul out of his depressing train of thought, and into a more cheerful state of mind. How could he not, when his name was pronounced like that? Besides, the inviting expression on John's face and the way his lips curled up were more than enough to banish those ghouls to the deepest dungeons of Paul's mind, where they belonged. Returning the happy smile that was directed at him, Paul sat down in his normal spot whilst John took Mike's. "Smells great, John."

The first bite he took was, to Paul anyway, the good kind of shocking. He'd had his share of meals that looked and smelt great, but ended up not tasting good at all. This wasn't one of those times. This was bloody brilliant, so he forgot his table manners and just dug in, his intentions of leaving some room for pigging out during the films long since forgotten.

After a few minutes in which the silence was only broken by sounds of cutlery on plates and Carl Perkins' 'Sure To Fall' - during which John's lecherous looks had made Paul blush like a schoolgirl - he remembered he'd been meaning to take the piss out of John about something. Paul reckoned it'd be perfect timing, what with John making him feel so embarrassed and all that.

"Did you find anything interesting in my bathroom, Johnny? I do hope you put everything back where you found it..." Without so much as batting an eyelid, Paul met John's gaze, the corners of his mouth curling victoriously as John's face morphed into an 'oh, fuck' expression and his cheeks turned crimson.

"How did you..."

"You were in there for fifteen minutes before I came knocking, John," Paul chuckled as he raised his glass of water to wash away a somewhat oversized mouthful of pasta. "Changing outfits takes what, two minutes? It was kind of obvious, you know. So, anything shocking, other than the quilted loo paper, or Mike's condoms?"

Barely recovered from the shock of being found out - he'd been so sure he was being all stealth like - John was faced with a massive disappointment. The things in that bathroom had nearly all been so terribly normal that anything more entertaining than hair pomade, paracetamol tablets, or replacement razor blades had seemed like a major discovery. Apparently, he wasn't even allowed that tiny bit of excitement. "Those aren't yours?"

"They're not, and neither is the lube you undoubtedly found," Paul chuckled, almost feeling sorry for John. He looked so lost, like a kid who'd been given the world's biggest ice cream cone, only to end up dropping it in the sand moments later. That pout was worth millions, though. "What's the matter, John? Disappointed?"

"No. Maybe a little." Little by little, John began to see the humour of the situation. Here he was, thinking himself to be some sort of Magnum P.I., or Inspector Morse, hoping to find the one piece of evidence that would tell him what made Paul tick when all this time, Paul knew exactly what he was doing. Oh well. At least he now knew why he couldn't get his DA right (he was using the wrong product) and he had gained some ideas on what to buy Paul for Christmas or a very, very late birthday gift. "You're not cheesed about it, are you?"

"No, no. God, no. Why would I be? I think it's kind of cute, in a slightly perverted way." shaking his head in amusement, Paul turned back to his plate, meaning to clear it before the pasta got cold. "You could've just asked me if you wanted to know personal stuff, you know. Much less bother, than digging through rubbish bins and dresser drawers, I reckon."

"Yeah, fair enough. So, does that mean I can ask you anything?" When Paul briefly looked up at the suggestive tone in John's voice, he bobbed his eyebrows up and down to underline his point, causing Paul to nearly spit out his food. It was so easy to make him laugh or blush, John mused affectionately.

"Well... You can ask. Whether I answer remains to be seen. Go on, what's the one thing you most want to know?"

"Alright... Are you half 'n' half like, or do you prefer one over the other?" After his rather blunt question, John focused on his food, shovelling as much into his mouth as he could fit.

Paul nearly choked on his pasta again. That was what, the fourth time since they sat down? Who knew eating dinner with John would be more hazardous than his own cooking? He didn't even know why he was surprised. He'd expected the question, though maybe not quite that directly. "Well... When I came out, I thought you could either be straight or gay and I liked boys better, so I told my parents I was gay. Thankfully, I know now that you can like both, even though I'm more attracted to men."

On some level, John could relate to that. He had never been attracted to girls, but he'd felt like he should be. As a result, he'd gone out with one for a little while even when he already knew he was gay. When they ended up in bed together, he'd ended up fantasising about Johnny Depp just to stay hard long enough to finish. As humiliating as that was, it had finally allowed him to accept that he really was gay. knowing and acknowledging were different things, and what he took from Paul's words was that he had needed some time to figure it all out too. "When did you come out, then? Must've been early if you didn't know the difference between bi and gay."

"Yeah, it was," Paul nodded, racking his brain to recall when he'd had that conversation with his mum. Before she got ill, that much he knew for a fact, but how long before? It was so long ago... "Erm... Just before my thirteenth birthday, I think. Maybe a little bit earlier, but it was that year. I knew I wasn't straight before that, though. What about you?"

"It's tempting to say I always knew, but that's probably rubbish. Because you don't think about it when you're little, do you?" A sense of sadness threatened to creep up on John. He remembered that time so well. Those months of refusing to accept his sexuality, wondering if he should talk to his mum about it, and then deciding against it, afraid she'd turn him away. What a fool he'd been, torturing himself for all those months when she was waiting for him to be ready to talk about it. Had he known how much of a relief that would be, he wouldn't have put it off for so long. "My mum knew sooner than I did, I guess. I was fifteen when I told her, and she just went, 'I've known for years,' so it must've been obvious; to her in any case. At least she didn't try to talk me out of it. I've got friends in their twenties and thirties whose parents still ask 'are you sure you're gay?' whenever the subject is raised."

"Mike used to do that, but he was a little kid, he didn't understand," Paul nodded. He'd never held it against Mike, who had only recently turned eleven at the time. Paul wasn't sure, but he doubted he thought about sexual attraction when he was finishing Primary School. Mike sure had learnt about those things sooner than Paul had, though. He couldn't keep from laughing when he remembered the look on his poor baby brother's face, that fateful afternoon, two years after Paul had come out. "He got the gist when he caught me in bed with a lad, though. Never questioned it since. Never walked into my room without knocking again either."

"What? Your kid brother walked in on you having sex? Christ, talk about bad timing. Glad I don't have any siblings..."

"Yeah, well. These things happen." Feeling bloated from eating so much, Paul pushed away his plate. "Bloody hell, I'm stuffed! Let's get set up, alright? I reckon we should get starting on that marathon."

"You're just weaselling your way out of answering more questions."

Laughing, Paul accepted the plate John handed him and put the dirty dishes in the sink. He'd load the dishwasher later; they were going to be using all sorts of bowls and glasses anyway, so it'd be ridiculous to do a cycle for a handful of things. He cast a look over his shoulder after pulling the crisps, microwave popcorn, and fizzy drinks out of the shopping crate in the corner, catching John's saucy smirk. "Oh, I've got a feeling you'll be asking them anyway, John."

"You bet that fuckable arse of yours I am." Ignoring the wide-eyed look of horror on Paul's face, John playfully shoved his host out of the small kitchen. "Go on, son. Start setting up. I'll make popcorn. Sweet, butter, or salt?"

"Guess."

"You're right," John grinned, searching the cupboards for bowls. "All of them."

_~*~_

"AAH-CHOO!"

Paul's heart flew up in his throat pretty much as the same velocity his bowl of popcorn got launched. Gasping, he brought a hand to his chest whilst aiming wide, accusing eyes at John who had a sheepish grin on his face. "Fucking hell, John! Give me a bloody heart attack, why don't you! Jesus Christ..."

"Sorry. I snee-snee-h-achoo! Sneezed. Got any tissues? I seem to be leaking..."

"I knew you should've taken off those wet clothes sooner," Paul grumbled. Reluctant to get up, he perched the remote control on the coffee table, as far away from John as he could get it. On the screen, Professor Quirrell was frozen mid-faint and he did not, repeat: did NOT want to miss the epic scene in the lavvy where Harry, Ron, and Hermione took out a troll. Thankfully, there were some tissues left in the box atop the piano, so he tossed it at John. A fat lot of good that did. He hit him squarely in the head with it, but it bounced off so now he had to bend over to pick it up.

"Cheers." Seriously doubting it'd be enough, John pulled out a wad of paper and blew his nose noisily whilst Paul disappeared into the hallway where John could hear him rummaging for something. When he resurfaced, he brought what looked like a value pack of pocket hanks. with any luck, that should be enough... "I think it's just my feet, the-aaahhh-.... Never mind; false alarm. They're bloody freezing."

"Well, you could've just told me, couldn't you? Then you wouldn't have had to fucking scare the shit out of me," Paul scolded, biting back the giggles that were just below the surface. Between the watery death glare John shot him, his nose being all red like a Christmas bauble, and the ridiculous still image on the TV screen, the whole scene was simply hilarious. "Try to keep your dirty germs away from me anyway, yeah? I'll go get some socks or something. You just... Well, try not to get snot everywhere, and for fuck's sake, sweep up the popcorn. It's everywhere!"

"But you spilt it!"

Leaning over the back of the sofa, Paul plucked a few bits of popcorn out of John's hair. How he'd managed to get it there was anyone's guess, but he was really struggling to keep a straight face now. Still, this whole mock-row was endlessly funny and he kind of wondered who'd break down laughing first. John was already halfway there too. "Yeah, and whose fault is that eh? The dustpan is in the cupboard under the sink. I'll be right back. And don't touch that remote! If I find out you watched that troll get knocked unconscious without me, I'll Wingardium Leviosa you right out of that window right there."

"Oooooh. Bossy! Makes me feel all tingly in my happy place. Do it some more," John drawled, clearly trying for all the world to sound and look sexy when in reality, it was anything but. The whole image was enough to make Paul snort. One more game he lost to John; when would he ever get the upper hand?

"What have I done to deserve such a gobshite for a friend? Bloody hell..."

Whilst John cackled maniacally in the background, interrupted by two more loud sneezes, Paul traipsed upstairs. They hadn't even finished the first film yet... The banter should not have been at this level so early on. He'd hate to think how bad it would get once they'd start getting giddy from sleep deprivation, or worse: when the waterworks would start. Which they would. That's why he'd hoarded that many tissues.

Paul hadn't told John yet how he always ended up blubbering uncontrollably during the more emotional second half of the series. Something told him he wouldn't be crying alone this time. Then again, was he ever? Janeway was always there to lie on his lap and let herself be hugged for comfort when the exhaustion turned him into a leaking tap. He wasn't going to issue any warnings about it, though. If he did, John would probably try to make him break down sooner. Instead, Paul would make it his next goal to make John weep first, and he wasn't averse to cheap tricks to make it happen. Grinning, he pulled the items he was searching for off of the top shelf of his wardrobe and scooped Janeway up off the bed. "Come on, captain. We need a hot water bottle, and you're it."

Well, he'd swept, hadn't he? Sure, some of the popcorn was now underneath the sofa, and he could clearly see some pieces lurking in difficult to reach places, but John felt he'd done more than enough. He'd even put a whole new bag into the microwave, all but burnt his fingers opening it, and had gone to the trouble of pouring it into the bowl Paul had sent flying and taken a new bottle of Fanta Fruit Twist out of the fridge as well: his new favourite fizzy drink. Considering he was a guest, that was far more than he had to, even if Paul hadn't had a single drop of the sickly sweet drink yet. Barely five seconds after he'd crashed back down on the settee, John watched Paul return, carrying what looked suspiciously like... "Seriously, Paul? A Harry Potter duvet now? What happened to socks?"

"And a matching pillow, don't forget to mention that! But if it's socks you want, I have some Harry Potter ones if you want them... I don't buy this shite, you know. Mike thinks it's funny to taunt me about being a Potterhead so he keeps buying me the craziest merchandise. I bet he never thought it'd come in useful." Paul gently lowered the cat onto the sofa, where she promptly plopped down on top of the pile of linens he'd dropped there moments earlier, turning onto her back, begging for a belly rub. There were times when Paul wished he could have a dog. Since they weren't allowed in the building, and he loved cats too, he and Mike had adopted Janeway. As it turned out, she was about as much like a dog as a cat could be, so everyone was a winner in the end. "Also, I brought this young lady down for you. She loves lying on people's feet."

Without hesitation, John reached out to tickle that soft, warm belly, receiving winks and loud purrs as a reward. "Where was she? I've been wondering."

"On my bed. She was there earlier, you know. You nearly sat on her." Paul scratched her chin, moving to an ear whenever his hand was not-so-subtly pushed in that direction. "She even touched your hand to get your attention, but you didn't notice. Of course, you were so busy staring at me that the house could've been on fire without you catching on. Just like you didn't notice her sitting on the stairs when Jodie was here. She saw you though, didn't you, Janeway?"

"Janeway?" For a moment, John stopped rubbing. "As in captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager?"

"Erm.... Yes..."

Not a second later, he jumped up off the sofa and dropped to his knees before a stunned Paul, clasping his hands in a dramatic begging gesture whilst waiting loudly, "Paul, please marry me!"

"Erm, sure, John," Paul deadpanned. "You want to pop into the Registry now, or shall we finish the Philosopher's Stone first?"

Grinning, John crawled back to his seat before it cooled. He'd half expected and certainly hoped to make Paul giggle again. Better luck next time, he supposed, leaning over to pick up Janeway so he could cuddle with her. She seemed to like him: another sign that things were meant to be. "Well, I suppose we could wait. If we must. Seriously, though... We're perfect for each other. I don't think I ever had a Trekkie boyfriend before."

"John?" Sighing deeply, Paul picked up the duvet, hoping to figure out which way was up so he could drape it over the sofa the right way 'round. He wanted to sit under it too, and he was keeping the pillow. Tossing one end of the thing to John, who managed to pull it over himself with one hand whilst holding Janeway against his chest with the other, Paul spoke very deliberately, just to make sure the message was clear. "I'm not your boyfriend."

"Maybe not yet," John shrugged, pulling up his legs far enough so Paul could put his up as well, "but you'll succumb to my charms. Also, were engaged now, so it doesn't matter. Are we going to finish this film or what?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, some more angst in this one. A bit longer, but there's a happy end and it's only there to serve the characters so please bear with me.

"You have weird feet."

They were about one-third into the marathon, by now. It had just gone one in the morning, Prisoner of Azkaban was halfway through, and John was starting to feel the first wave of exhaustion coming on. He hadn't really believed Paul when he'd said there would be a few moments like that, but now that they were seven hours into the Harrython, John couldn't deny he was getting tired. Then again, he should've realised it was going to be demanding when he'd felt a lump in his throat when Dobby got liberated from the Malfoys. Sure, it was one of his favourite scenes, but he'd never choked up before at the squeaky cry of 'Dobby is free!' before. He'd hate to think how he'd react when Harry returned with Cedric's corpse, or when Sirius died, or...

Finding it hard to concentrate, John's mind had wandered and just now, for some reason he couldn't fathom, it had settled on Paul's feet, which he hadn't bothered to stick under the duvet after the most recent wee break (wee in both senses of the word: just a very short interruption to go take a piss). Now that the anomaly had caught his attention, it was proving impossible to look away. So naturally, as one does, he had blurted out his findings, which resulted in that perfectly curved right eyebrow to be pulled up to dizzying heights.

If John was already losing his ability to focus now, he'd be in for a very long night, Paul reckoned as he glared at his neighbour. They weren't even close to the halfway point yet, which was usually when he'd start to sag. Since this was John's first Harrython, Paul had kept the schedule a lot less demanding than he usually would. Apparently, taking a 15-minute break hadn't been enough. Still, even taking fatigue into consideration, who in their right mind would study someone else's feet of all things? Then again, Paul wasn't entirely convinced John fit into the 'right mind' category.

"What are you on about, John? I swear, mate, just when I thought you couldn't get nuttier... Now watch the film or you'll miss the good part, and leave my feet alone. Bloody hell..." He reached for the bag of M&M's and directed his attention back to the telly. After grabbing a fistful of the sweets, he held out the bag in John's general direction, inviting him to dig in too. With any luck, it'd get his mind off the topic of feet. Without taking his eyes off the film, he mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate, "Hermione's just about to punch Draco!"

"You! You foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach!"

John grinned merrily at the way he and Paul had uttered the words in perfect synchrony to Hermione. "Yes! Right in the gob! I love that part," he laughed, highly amused by the enthusiasm with which Paul cheered, and the perfect imitation of Ron's response he managed to get out between chuckles.

They'd been doing that a lot: reciting the words in chorus with the characters. Sometimes they'd even mutter the next lines moments before they were due to be spoken. So far, Ron's one-liners had proven to be particularly popular, but then half of those were just him yelling 'bloody hell', and that was easy enough to remember. They'd both been in stitches over 'why can't it be: follow the butterflies', but John felt he'd done a better job of getting the accent right. Paul knew more words by heart, though, probably because he'd seen the films more often. Apparently, it was the main reason Mike refused to watch Paul's favourite films with him. George may or may not have commented on John displaying the same habit. But, since George enjoyed Harry Potter too, he didn't allow an annoying flatmate to chase him off.

"He had it coming, didn't he," Paul said, indicating Draco.

"Not half, mate! He's one hell of a bastard. I'd still fuck him, though. That bloke is hot." With an air of finality, John put the last of his M&M's into his mouth. Looking at his now empty hand, he noticed red, yellow, and green stains. 'Don't melt in your hand' my arse, he thought. If that was true, then where did those spots come from? Looking sideways, he caught they way Paul's eyes widened. "What?"

"They're kids!"

John failed to see the problem. "Not now, they aren't. And that bloke playing Draco wasn't then, either. He's three years older than me, mate. He was well legal when that scene was filmed. They're all older than us, actually, so..."

Maybe John had a point, but still. Even if the actors were old enough, the characters weren't, and it felt weird to look at them that way. Or maybe it was just him being overly sensitive. As a teacher, he did have to take on a kind of parental role, after all. He felt a bit better knowing John wasn't perving after thirteen-year-olds, though. He kind of knew the actors aged faster than their characters but hadn't a clue some of them had been that much older than what they played. Apparently, they had been. Perhaps he should let it be.

For five blissful minutes or something like that, John managed to keep his mind on the story. It wasn't until the whole pumpkin patch scene that he remembered what he'd discovered and poked playfully at the foot nearest to him. He'd never seen such high arches, or toes that were shaped like that. "They're dead ugly, mate. But I suppose you can't be a hundred percent perfect."

"I'm not even one percent perfect, John. You've just convinced yourself of that. You shouldn't do that, you know." Paul took a moment to shake the bag and pick out the blue ones. "People can never live up to your expectations if you put them up on a pedestal."

He had a point, John supposed. But he couldn't help it if Paul was perfect, could he? Well, perfect for him, anyway. Or, almost... "Oi, leave some blue ones for me."

"No."

Cackling, John lunged for the bag but he was no match for those long arms, and too lazy to get up and make a real effort. "Fine. You're not perfect. You're a selfish arse with grotty feet."

"Thank you.," Paul laughed. John was so funny when he pouted; why the hell wasn't he immune to that? Sighing, Paul relented and gave the bag to John as a peace offering. "Now shut the fuck up and watch the film. It's far too early to be this distracted. You'll get a half-hour break after this one. I'm thinking either grilled cheese on toast or maybe something with eggs. That should see us through the next leg. Better than all this sugar will, anyway."

"Sounds great. But you're cooking."

_~*~_

"You know what I never understood, though?"

"No," Paul said, pushing the bacon around in the frying pan so it wouldn't burn. "What?"

"Why didn't they just stick to the books?" John closed the lid of the sandwich toaster and put a bit of pressure on it, so make sure the ham and cheese sarnies he had in there would be nice and crispy when they came out. As he waited for the indicator to go out, he continued his rant. He had a few minutes, and he sure as fuck was going to put them to use! "I mean, we're starting the Goblet of Fire in a bit, but Dobby isn't even in it. Let alone all the other shit they changed. Don't get me wrong, right, I'm a massive David Tennant fan - best Doctor of the lot if you ask me - and he plays that role brilliantly, but changing the story doesn't make sense, does it?"

Paul couldn't help but agree. It always struck him as odd, especially since the changes didn't make the film that much shorter, probably. Then again... "They had to leave out some things though, John. Otherwise, people might have nagged that if they wanted to waste four hours on a film, they would've watched Lord of the Rings."

"Maybe..." The little red light switched to green, and John lifted the lid. Nice and golden with a good, brown toasting pattern: just the way he liked it. Nearly burning his fingers on the hot, molten cheese that was just starting to drip out the sides, he moved the toast to the growing pile he was making and started loading the toaster again. Two, maybe four more should be enough to see them through the next two films, after which Paul promised they'd have breakfast.

He couldn't help but have a bee in his bonnet about the subject of artistic license, though. Not all films had suffered equally from it, but to John, some of the grossest trespasses had been made to Goblet. "I can see why they cut the World Cup bit short: that went on forever in the book anyway. But to leave out Dobby and Winky in favour of some weird Barty Crouch scene which doesn't make much sense? And another thing. What the fuck is up with those Dress Robes? They kept Ron's in, but why aren't the others? Hermione looks nothing like how she was described in the book. And what about Harry's green robes that went with his eyes? Then again, they're not green in the film, are they?" With an indignant huff, he emptied the toaster again. He'd gotten so caught up in his soap box that he'd left the toast in too long: the batch was bordering on burnt. He reckoned they'd taste fine anyway.

"Wow, that's quite a speech, John," Paul grinned. He had just transferred the bacon to two plates, where a few slices of toast were already waiting, making sure to distribute it equally over each piece of bread before even attempting to fry the eggs. That, he could do. The trickiest part was behind him now. "Letting go off all your frustrations now, are you?"

"I'm allowed, aren't I?" He shrugged when Paul nodded, chuckling. Perhaps he was making a lot of noise about nothing, but there were so many ways in which the films could have been better. Little, but important things, such as... "Harry's got blue eyes in the films, mate. They had millions to spend, but they couldn't afford some fucking green contacts? I'm telling you, they should've cast you in that role. You look more like Harry than Dan does: at least your eyes are sort of the right colour. Sometimes."

It was really difficult to take John seriously when he went on a tangent like that. Of course, Paul had the tendency to start rambling all of the time, so he couldn't really say much about it. "Well, I didn't audition, did I? Besides, I'm not old enough, you know. Even if I had wanted to be an actor, which I never did, I would've been too young anyway. They don't cast eight-year-olds to play an eleven-year-old."

"I know that. I'm just saying you tick more boxes: black hair green eyes... Well, greenish, you look like your dad but you have your mum's eyes, you have an annoying brother, you're likeable and talented... Do you have any evil aunts too?" John had to laugh at the idea of one of Paul's aunties floating over Liverpool, screaming bloody murder.

Paul chuckled, thinking that if he had lived in a wizarding world, there might have been a person or two he'd accidentally blow up. His old maths teacher came to mind. "No, and Voldemort didn't kill my parents, either. I'm sure my mum would've preferred Avada Kedavra over what she got, though. Seems like a much easier way to go than after months of agony, you know?" Realising what he just said, he quickly shut his mouth. He had not meant to talk about that now...

The remark had completely taken John by surprise. So much in fact, that he barely even noticed he was trying to grab slices of untoasted bread that weren't there: he'd run out of things to grill and had to finish up by leaving one slot empty. "Your mum's dead? Shit man, I had no idea."

"Yeah. Sorry about that, it sort of slipped. Didn't mean to ruin the mood, mate."

"Don't be ridiculous. You ruined nothing. I want you to be open with me. Besides, mine's dead too, so that's another thing we have in common, right?" Out of nowhere, a scene which never seemed to make much sense to him came to mind. It suddenly seemed to fit how he felt, though. In a way, he mused, that kind of loss was a lot like a Dark Mark. It never went away and when touched by the right (or wrong) person, it just flared up and be as fresh and painful as the day that pain was first inflicted. "To quote Barty Junior: I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours. What happened?"

"Breast cancer.," Paul said quietly. "Mum got diagnosed when I was thirteen, and our lives just sort of stopped, you know? It was surgery after surgery, chemo, radiation, more chemo... It was brutal. No matter what they came up with next, it didn't help. She died when I was fourteen. On Halloween of all days. Whilst everyone was trying to create fake nightmares and horror scenes, we were living it for real, you know? That's when it all-..."

He had meant to say 'that's when it all went to shit,' because it was. His dad hadn't been able to cope with the loss and emotionally shut off. There hadn't been much parenting anymore, though. Jim would have moments when he seemed to remember a twelve-year-old and a fourteen-year-old couldn't raise themselves and he'd be either extremely loving or unreasonably strict during those times. Mostly, though, he just let them do whatever. Paul had taken it upon himself to step into that void, pushed away his own grief just so Mike would be fed, clothed, and attending school.

But for a teenage brain, it had been too much to handle and that had allowed Rory to come into the picture. Back then, just having someone who wanted to take care of him for a change had been the greatest thing to Paul, and so Rory had driven a wedge between Paul and his family when he wasn't even seventeen yet. If only he'd known how it would play out... He had nearly said all those things, which undoubtedly would've dislodged the pile of dung that were the worst three years of his life, but he stopped himself just in time.

After a deep breath, he muttered, "that's when it all became just a little too real, you know? You know it's coming, but until it's your reality, you don't realise how much you'll miss someone, or what you still wanted to tell them."

"Yeah, no shit," John whispered hoarsely. Watching Paul's face as he spoke, and especially when he fell silent, had touched him deeply. There was a profound level of emotion in there which surpassed the simple words he'd used to explain the situation. The loaded silence had translated that sense of having lost and being lost as a result, better than John and all his clever words ever could.

The truth of the pain was omnipresent in the two, three tears that spilt over Pauls' eyelids after having teetered there for an eternal moment. John had wanted to wrap his arms around Paul then, wished to be the one to wipe - or kiss - those tears away, but just then, Paul had run a swift hand across his face, breaking the spell as he spoke again. Somehow, John sensed there was far more pain hidden behind those kaleidoscope eyes. Perhaps he'd find out sometime.

"Anyway, what about yours, then?" With an effort, Paul pulled himself up by the bootstraps - again - and locked away the pain. Focusing on the food, he noticed the eggs had slightly burnt during his little trip down memory lane. Shrugging, he layered the cheese on top of them anyway and decided he'd take the burnt ones since the first attempt had been much better.

To his right, John was just unplugging the toaster after having transformed the last of the bread into a ham-cheese sarnie. They worked really well together, Paul thought. He motioned for John to get the water glasses whilst he moved the plates to the breakfast table, or whatever the proper name for it was when it was being used at a quarter past three in the morning.

Wielding his cutlery to cut off a sizeable piece of the bacon-egg-cheese-toast which smelt absolutely divine, John tried to keep his voice level when he dug up the memory of that horrible day. "I never even got to say goodbye. My mum was there one moment and gone the next. I remember we had a massive barney that morning before I went to school. I don't even recall what it was about now. You think you're always going to remember that, but it's the silly details that stick with you, right? Not a clue what we rowed about or which class I was in when the headmaster came to pull me out, but I knew exactly what I was wearing that day. I even remember what I had for lunch."

He ate a few bites, allowing himself some time to calm down. Across from him, Paul was listening intently, nodding at times, probably to indicate he knew exactly the kind of rubbish would stick, and which important details would just disappear. "Anyway, I first thought I was being expelled again but then when I walked into that office, my aunt was there, crying. I'd never seen her cry before. She's like Maggie Thatcher, you know: the Iron Lady. That's when they told me mum had been hit by a car on her way to work. Some worthless gobshite, still drunk from the night before or summat. Ran a red light, and drove straight into mum as she crossed the junction. Dead before she even hit the ground. That bloomin' arse didn't have a scratch on him, of course."

Paul felt completely taken aback by the story. He thought he'd had it hard, but at least he had said goodbye to his mother. he couldn't begin to imagine how dreadful it had to be to lose a loved one that suddenly. It was plain to see John was still very distraught by it; Paul could see his hands were trembling, and his skin had gotten all blotchy. "I'm so sorry, John. When was this?"

"A little over seven years ago, I was seventeen. I lived with my aunt for a little while, but that didn't work out, so I moved out on my own and got a job." He took a shuddering breath and grinned despite himself. No need to get caught up in self-pity, he reckoned. If Paul could shake it off, then so could he. He threw Paul a cheeky wink and joked, "the first of many. I'm not a model employee, as you might have noticed."

"Really? I never would've guessed," Paul snorted, vividly recalling the debacle. Thankfully, his eyes had long since stopped aching. It had been little more than a vague itch by the time he'd shaken off his hangover anyway.

It was easier to put the sadness behind him than John had anticipated. It had to be related to Paul, John thought. He didn't know why, but he just felt calmer and more balanced around him. Even now, seconds after having to fight back tears, he found himself ready to laugh again. And then there was that infectious smile which he would never have known if he hadn't been such a loose cannon. "Still, you have to admit me being such a fuck-up has its perks. We wouldn't be here together if I'd been a scrupulous person, would we? I would've just let you get on with that date, after which you would've gone home alone and we would never have known what a fabulous person I am."

This time, Paul just had to laugh out loud. The combination of John's words and the comical face he paired them with was just too much to resist. "Every cloud has a silver lining, eh, Johnny?"

"I'll drink to that."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not proof read this, so please ignore any stupid mistakes.

By the time they'd finished breakfast and watched 'The Half-Blood Prince', he felt emotionally exhausted. These marathons were draining at the best of times, but now there was the added strain of all that baggage coming out in bursts. He couldn't believe the things that just slipped out. What was it about John that made it so impossible to keep all that crap locked away? For some reason, John seemed to disarm him, and it was starting to look like the harder he tried to keep all that hurt hidden, the more it just poured out at the worst possible moments.

But more embarrassingly, the more Paul confided in John, the more he wanted to share those innermost secrets; an effect only very few people had ever had on him. Talking about his past made him feel closer to John who seemed to want to hear it all, especially when they seemed to have certain experiences in common. At the same time, it took so much energy to relive those memories, and to perk himself up again after another bout of verbal diarrhoea, Paul didn't know if he actually had the strength to have another heart to heart.

It was taking its toll on the marathon, too. Paul was much more emotional than he normally got. Crying was just part of the experience, that much he'd known beforehand. When he watched by himself, that wasn't an issue. Somehow, he didn't mind doing it in front of John, either. Not anymore, in any case. Maybe it had worried him for a bit, but since John had, indeed, been the first to get to that point, Paul really didn't care about it anymore. And why should he? If it was alright for girls to weep, then why not for boys? Actually getting to that point was physically a lot harder for men anyway (fucking testosterone!) so wasn't it kind of silly to fight those tears when they did finally come?

Of course, John still tried to the undeniable: that he'd lost control over his emotions when Harry wept over Cedric's dead body after using the Portkey to get back to Hogwarts. Silent tears had started rolling first but when mister Diggory started wailing over his son, Paul definitely heard a sob coming from John and even though he'd said something to the extent of 'I'm not bloody crying; I'm not a fucking bird,' he'd made good use of the hankies. The ribbing that followed was all in good fun, and Paul had rather enjoyed allowing himself to have a good cry over some fictional drama as well. None of that mattered between friends, so it didn't bother him. But fuck, if he wasn't completely knackered!

John could definitely see the charm of watching all of the Harry Potter films in less than a day. He really could. It was just that he was dead on his feet and they hadn't reached the end yet. He desperately wanted to sleep and found it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes from falling shut.

Being this exhausted had an interesting effect on his senses and emotions somehow, which made for fascinating situations. He'd always been receptive to the tricks filmmakers used to trigger certain feelings, so just like always, the emotionally loaded end scenes of the Philosopher's Stone had caused John to have an annoying lump in his throat, as did the finale of each consecutive film. Then again, who wouldn't feel all warm inside when Dobby got liberated from the Malfoys, or when Sirius and Harry had that heartwarming conversation? All of that was normal, but he'd never actually _wept_  whilst watching a film before. That was a whole new experience. Something told John it was about to get even worse because Harry and Dumbledore had just returned from that fucking island, which meant he had to brace himself for what was about to come...

Mere minutes later, John was feeling completely raw inside. Clearly, he wasn't the only one, because he could hear Paul's appalled gasp, followed by a soft 'nooooo...' when Dumbledore fell off the Astronomy tower. What made him look sideways, though, was the audible sob at the end of that single, elongated syllable. If he hadn't been crying yet, he certainly would have at the sight of Paul, who sat next to him with his knees pulled all the way up to his chest and tears running down his face whilst frantically chewing on his thumb. He wasn't even trying to conceal it, either. He just sat there, looking utterly lost and every bit as devastated as John felt. Though, naturally, he would never willingly admit that.

John still believed, on some level, that he was not nearly as far gone as Paul... Right? He totally wasn't hugging the stuffing out of a big, purple cushion, and he most certainly didn't have snot oozing from his nose, nor were there tear stains on the lenses of his glasses. And his voice hadn't gone all hoarse, either. No, not him. That was some other bloke, who just happened to look exactly the same, and who happened to be sitting in the same spot... Oh alright, fuck it. He was a blubbering mess. But it was so fucking sad, wasn't it? Without really giving it much thought, he moved to the left until he found himself more or less pressed into Paul's side, who indulged him by wrapping an arm around John's shoulder so they could cry together. No longer giving a single fuck, John rested his head on Paul's shoulder and gave those stupid tears free reign for a few moments whilst a heartbroken Harry went after Snape. Fuck, he was knackered...

"You know the worst part?" The words had come out barely more than a hoarse whisper, but Paul seemed to have understood anyway because he slowly shook his head. "No matter how many times you watch it, it always ends the same. Dumbledore always fucking dies! Every. Bloody. Time."

Paul's first instinct at such a profound display of wisdom was to nod solemnly and to draw a deep, shuddering breath, half expecting another wave of sadness to reduce him to a leaking tap again. At that point, crying had pretty much become a goal in and of itself. He should cry their eyes out because it was fucking sad, and it was his party so he could bloody well weep like a girl if he wanted. However, John's words penetrated his sleep-deprived brain and the next thing he knew, he was doubled over, laughing hysterically. "Bloody hell, John," Paul managed to gasp between bouts of giggles, "way to spoil the mood, la'!"

John, meanwhile, didn't understand what was so bloody funny. Dumbledore died. Every time. How could anyone laugh at that? Then again... Maybe it was sort of funny, the way he'd said it? Paul seemed to think so and fuck if that laughter wasn't infectious. Little by little, he could feel the hysterics bubbling up inside of himself too until eventually, they were both struggling to catch their breaths.

Slowly, the laughing fit wore off, and John found himself locking eyes with Paul, whose eyes were still shining with tears, probably from laughing and crying alike. He meant to look only for a second because the film was still going. But he found he couldn't look away. Their faces were so close, having fallen into each other in the middle of those overwhelming giggles. It was just inches between them, really. He could see the little specks of brown and gold in Paul's eyes, and the way his eyelashes clumped together now that they were wet. He could even see the little trails of salt that remained on those pinchable cheeks. John's eyes found Paul's lips, which were ever so slightly parted. Maybe it'd be alright to...

"Crap, now we missed the finale," he muttered, pulling slightly back. He wanted to kiss Paul, he really did. Maybe he should have. But they were exhausted. Well, he was anyway, but he supposed Paul had to be as well. He wanted to have that kiss, and soon, but not when he was too fucking tired to enjoy it. Hell, he probably wouldn't even remember it if it had happened now. For all John knew, he could already be asleep and dreaming all of it. He stayed where he was just in case, though. Paul hadn't pushed him off; if anything he was pulling him in closer. It felt good. Their bodies fit together nicely. John was more than happy to sit like that the remaining hours. As Paul skipped back a few scenes so they could properly watch the aftermath of Dumbledore's death, John released a contented sigh. It was happening. Him and Paul. He was sure of it. It was only a matter of time now...

  
_~*~_

  
"Paul! Get off the bog." John rapped an urgent rhythm on the loo door, which had been locked for a few minutes now. He'd been holding it for far too long already, not wanting to make the Harrython last a minute longer than necessary. The final two or three hours had been torture, anyway. His brain had half shut off, and the other half was aching. Even the headache tablets Paul had dug up during the short break between the Half-Blood Prince and the Deathly Hallows hadn't cured John's headache. He wasn't too sure Paul's had gotten any better either, but he didn't really care at that particular moment. He was in dire straits and John groaned audibly. It was really starting to hurt now. He only needed a minute, the way he felt, it'd probably be a speedy delivery. He'd just rather not do it standing outside the loo. "Hurry up, mate. I'm in serious labour pains out here."

"I can't," Paul shrugged, forgetting John couldn't see him. "I'm reading a magazine."

"Oh." For a brief moment, John forgot about his misery. He'd just endured a twenty-two-hour film marathon. What kind of Potterhead would he be if he missed the chance at a good Potter reference? "Does it have knitting patterns?"

Thank goodness John's brain hadn't completely been reduced to mush yet. Paul had hoped he'd see the opportunity. They'd gone far too long without any proper banter. "Yeah, and you can't have them. Now please stop whinging, John. Just use the upstairs loo, mate. And use air freshener when you're done! Preferably loads of it."

"Yeah, because you're smelling like daisies, right..."

Paul chuckled merrily when John's complaints faded away, though the grin died on his lips when the cramps got worse. Why HAD they eaten so much? There was pigging out, and then there was consuming enough food to feed a small country. And the worst part of it was, he already found himself thinking about what he'd be eating next. Thank fuck for flats that had their own gym. The one on the ground floor was for residents only, and something told Paul he'd be spending a lot of time there in the upcoming week, which was his last week off before he had to return to work. School didn't start for another three weeks, but teachers - and that included apprentices - were due to start preparing two weeks before the kids would set foot in the classroom. He was looking forward to it, especially now that he'd be spending more time teaching than observing. At that moment, though, Paul was glad he still had a week to himself. It'd allow him to train off some of the weight he undoubtedly gained in the last twenty-four hours.

When he finally felt safe to leave his throne, John was nowhere to be seen. Not downstairs, anyway. He'd heard the upstairs toilet flush, so he half expected him to be back. Wondering if John was on another quest to discover Paul's secrets by going through his things, he sauntered to the stairs and yelled, "John! Have you fallen in?" Nothing. Paul at least thought he'd get some kind of cheeky reply to that. Better take a look, he thought, dragging himself up the spiral staircase. The bathroom was empty (and smelly), so he continued on to the bedroom where he froze with what he suspected was a silly smile on his face.

John was asleep, and looking far more adorable than any grown man should ever be allowed to look. Apparently, he'd sat down to pet Janeway, who had his hand locked between her front paws and by the way he was positioned, Paul guessed John had leant on his arm to reach her better. Well, she looked dead chuffed anyway, and John... His feet were off the side of the bed and he was sprawled sort of diagonally so his body occupied both halves of the bed, and he was clearly dead to the world. Paul felt all warm and fuzzy inside as he silently moved over to his wardrobe to fetch a blanket. He didn't know why caring for John felt so comfortable, but it did. Careful not to wake him up, Paul moved John's legs a bit so they were properly on the bed, and ever so gently lifted his head to place a pillow under it. John never even twitched, he was that fast asleep. After draping the blanket over most of him, Paul assessed his handiwork. It wasn't perfect, but it'd have to do.

Back downstairs, Paul focused on tidying up, fighting the urge to lie down for a kip. He and John had managed to produce enough dirty dishes to fill the dishwasher and made a mess of the kitchen cleaning the kitchen, not to mention the leftovers and bits of food that had ended up everywhere... It took a bit of an effort, and half the time Paul felt he was running around like a chicken with its head chopped off, but eventually the place didn't look like a bomb had gone off anymore.

Problem was: finishing the tidying up also meant he was fast getting bored, so Paul reckoned he might as well start working on the next video lesson. He dug up some TAB sheets, a pencil, and his iPod and made himself comfortable on the sofa, feeling confident about his choice of song to work on: 'Feather on the Clyde'. Perhaps, he mused, he should make it a double lesson and include 'All the Little Lights' as well. He would, after all, have a lot less time to update once school started. Happy with his decision, he pressed play and started scribbling...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT!!!! The moment you've been waiting for. Buckle up, ladies, because it's getting hot in here!
> 
> If you're wondering about the first bit of the chapter, I promise it's not a continuity issue. It'll be explained in the next chapter.
> 
> Songs in this chapter:
> 
> Ed Sheeran - Photograph: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSDgHBxUbVQ  
> Passenger - Feather on the Clyde: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WMbf4AB6Yw  
> Passenger - All The Little Lights: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkxVxox--Io

 

When John first returned to the land of the living, he had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. It didn't take long to figure out, though, because the instant he drew a deep breath, he immediately recognised the smell that made him smile. Sure enough, when he forced his eyelids apart, he found himself sprawled on Paul's bed, face-down on a pillow that was infused with the scent he loved so much. It was difficult to describe: it was without a doubt a masculine fragrance, yet it smelt fresh and sweet, and almost floral. If he had to put an image to it, it might've been a herb garden after a refreshing fall of rain or some airy-fairy shite like that. John had opened the green bottle when he'd been on his little expedition, and he'd liked it then, but somehow it had changed into something better on Paul's skin, and John couldn't get enough of that so he inhaled it some more before he nearly had a heart attack.

Out of nowhere, Paul's voice rang through the room and for a brief moment, John thought he'd been caught getting high off the scent of another man's aftershave. Then, as the actual words began to seep through his sleep-addled brain, he noticed that Paul was talking about music, and also that the sound came from the corner opposite the door. Moving his head so he could see, John noticed a video recording was playing on the computer. A dazed Janeway was sat partly atop the keyboard, so his best guess was that she'd accidentally hit the playback button.

Intrigued, John got up for a closer look. If he'd been able to make sense of the intimidating keyboard cover, which had all kinds of colours and symbols, he might've paused the thing. Problem was, he was not computer-savvy. He still used Windows XP and screamed bloody murder for George whenever something went wrong. This thing wasn't even a real computer as far as he could tell. There was only a monitor, which didn't appear to be attached to a computer, and it all just looked so different. John had never even seen a Mac up close, only knew it had to be one because of the Apple logo below the screen, which he recognised from his iPhone. In truth, he was actually scared to even touch it, afraid he might ruin something, so he hoped it'd stop on its own accord and watched.

He recognised the background: Paul was sat on the piano bench downstairs, with his back to the piano and a guitar in his lap. He was talking about a song he was going to do - apparently after receiving requests to do more contemporary music - and then launched into 'Photograph' by Ed Sheeran. John loved that song so much; it never failed to make him well up due to the memories it brought back. However, as much as he adored Ed's version, there was something about Paul's voice that went straight into his heart and he found himself wiping away tears even before the chorus, which was an experience in and of itself. He didn't even know Paul could sing let alone that high, that beautifully, or with that much feeling. It was as if he sang about himself, or John, or anyone who'd ever felt the sting of love or loss.

As the song ended, he watched how Paul just sat there for a few moments, staring at the floor until a voice behind the camera asked, 'you alright, Paul? D'you want a second take, or...?' John didn't know whose voice it was; Mike's, perhaps? It had to be someone Paul trusted because his eyes were wet when he looked up, and he didn't hurry when he wiped them. 'Maybe later,' he said to the person filming. 'Let's just do the chords first and fix it in editing, yeah?' And with that, the camera zoomed in on the frets and Paul very eloquently explained how the song was played.

Clearly, this was a YouTube lesson, and he'd been in the middle of editing it. There were some moments when he stumbled over his words, broke down giggling, or said nearly the same thing twice because he'd mentioned the wrong chord. All in all, it was highly entertaining - especially the outro about links in the description, and subscribing, and supporting 'Strumming Scouser' on Patreon, and the catch phrase at the end which was all done in a thick Liverpudlian accent - and John decided to check out the channel when he'd get home.

To his enormous relief, everything stopped at the end of the file. Just to be sure, John stood up and watched the screen like a hawk until, after a few minutes, the screensaver leapt into action. Apparently, he was safe now. Barely recovered from the surprise discovery, John stretched lazily. His head felt heavy and slow, and he could feel his emotions still whirling around, not properly settled after the exhausting roller coaster ride of the Harrython yet. He'd slept like a log, but a few hours wasn't nearly enough after having been up for a day and a half. But, he wasn't quite as knackered as before, and his headache was gone. All in all, not a bad result. Glancing around, he noticed a note. It was right on the bed, so he expected it to be for him. Scratching his scalp, he got up to retrieve it.

 

_John,_

_Hope you slept well. Feel welcome to use the bathroom_   
_if you want - or don't, if you don't want to._   
_I left your stuff in there but they're a bit stinky from the rain._   
_You're welcome to raid my wardrobe. Happy excavating!_

Paul

 

John didn't even have to raise his arms to know he reeked of stale sweat and dried-up rain. Of course, he buried his nose in an armpit anyway, because that was the kind of halfwit he was, and emerged gagging. A shower was definitely overdue. It was his own fault, obviously. If he hadn't taken the wrong bus, he wouldn't have had to walk the last two miles to Paul's. In the end - after confirming his jeans did indeed have a very unpleasant odour - he decided on a dark green hoodie that had LIVERPOOL in white embroidery on the front, and a pair of grey jogging bottoms. Not much else would have fit him anyway since Paul wore a smaller size jeans than he did. To stay in the spirit, he also grabbed the Slytherin socks - there were pairs for each House stuffed into the far back of the sock drawer - and disappeared into the bathroom for a nice, hot shower.

_~*~_

Paul was dreaming. It was plain to see by the way his eyelashes fluttered, and how the little muscles around his eyes twitched. John could even see the movement of his eyeballs underneath the closed lids. For the past few minutes, he had been watching that beautiful face which looked so much younger now that it was all rosy and completely relaxed.

It was an unexpected treat, really. When he made his way downstairs, John had half expected Paul to be reading a book or something, since he'd muttered some shit about it being too late for a nap, and too early to go to bed. And if John knew one thing about him by now, it was that if Paul didn't try or intend to do things; he just did them. Well, not this time. Clearly, he'd set his mind on transcribing some songs and he obviously hadn't finished that.

John picked up the sheets of paper that were scattered on the floor. One said 'Feather on the Clyde' at the top, and there were fret numbers scribbled on the first page, which was filled out completely on one side, but only partially on the other. John didn't play well enough to look at the numbers and recognise the chords, but he wasn't too sure he'd be able to manage the complicated fingerpicking pattern anyway. The other sheet, titled 'All The Little Lights' was as of yet empty. Obviously, Paul had set about transcribing two songs and nodded off in the middle of the first. He hadn't even taken out his earbuds. Without meaning to, John found himself transfixed, unable to look away and unwilling to wake Paul up mid-dream.

Finally, he saw some movement. Not much, and no sign of waking up just yet, but Paul's breathing changed and he shifted his limbs about, moving into a different position, causing more things to tumble onto the floor: an eraser, a few more empty TAB sheets, an iPod which was still playing. Hoping he'd be able to resist the urge to steal a kiss, John leant over the sofa and gently shook Paul's shoulder, eliciting an inarticulate groan. "Paul, wake up. The house is on fire." Barely a second later, a pair of unfocused hazel eyes blinked open. John saw the pupils narrow as Paul's mind shook off the sleep, and then widen again when he noticed John. The warm smile that followed turned John into a hopeless puddle of mush. Nobody should be that sexy waking up...

"Hey," Paul croaked, frowning slightly at the low, raspy sound of his own voice: undeniable evidence of having fallen asleep even though he hadn't meant to. He couldn't deny feeling less tired than before, though, so maybe it wasn't too bad. Waking up to the sight of John hovering over him was a nice bonus, wasn't it? Shaking off the cobwebs that muddled his brain, he yawned elaborately and tightened his muscles to chase away the sleep. "What time is it?"

Alright, watching Paul wake up was now officially his favourite thing. Yes, he was cute whilst sleeping, and bloody gorgeous awake, but this in-between stage was just too much. "It's just been seven. I reckoned I'd wake you up now so you don't end up lying awake at three in the morning." Oh, the things John would love to do at three in the morning... Paul would have no trouble sleeping after that, and neither would he... "Erm... The rain stopped."

"About bloody time," he grumbled, sitting up before he could nod off again. Behind John, Paul could see some blue patches in the sky. He could tell by the quality of the daylight it'd start to get darker soon. "Cheers for waking me up. Last year, I spent half the night staring at the ceiling."

"Yeah, reckoned that was a risk. Are you hungry? I can order food if you want. There isn't much in the fridge anymore."

At the mere mention of food, Paul's stomach growled. Insane, considering how much he'd eaten in the past twenty-four hours. "Sounds great. There are some takeout menus in the messy drawer." He caught a whiff of himself and pulled a face. He'd arrived home smelling better after a ten-mile run on a hot summer's day. "I'll go and take a quick shower."

The messy drawer... Which one? For someone who kept the flat properly hoovered and tidied up, Paul seemed awfully blasé about his drawers. John had come to that conclusion when he'd caught a glimpse of the one which held the spatula Paul had used for the eggs. He opened it to see if the menus were in that one. All sorts of kitchen utensils were just thrown in there: tin openers, ladles, a pizza cutter, whisks, wooden spoons, and who knew what else lurked in the depths of it, but he guessed it wouldn't be the menus. Some of the things he saw were brand new but then again, the toastie maker he'd used had also given off that annoying burning smell new appliances always had the first few uses.

The second drawer John opened was even worse than the first, but it did look more promising. Amidst the lighters, pens, spare keys, batteries, hex keys (probably from all that IKEA furniture), lip balm, scissors, spare fuses, and a pile of other random rubbish, John found some much-used leaflets. He considered his options: pizza, Chinese, fish & chips, sushi (wait, they delivered that, too?), Indian, Mexican, another Italian place, Greek... There was no doubt about it: a lot of takeaway dinners were consumed by the Macs. No wonder Paul had to supplement his salary! Stuffing the majority of the menus back where he found them, John made his choice and went to place his order.

"We're having Indian," he announced when Paul returned, looking much more lively than fifteen minutes before. He was clad similarly to John now, only his jumper was light grey and it said LONDON in dark blue letters, whilst his jogging bottoms were very dark blue. He was wearing white sports socks, which John considered a bit of a cop out. The Ravenclaw ones would've gone perfectly with that outfit. He was also holding a shoe box. "Going somewhere?"

"What? Oh, no. I remembered I promised you something." Grinning awkwardly, Paul set the box on the kitchen table and opened the lid. "Unless you don't want them anymore."

"Ooh, the sunnies! Christ, there are a lot of them, aren't there?"

"Yeah. Told you I got each colour. Let's let them all out so we can see which ones are duplicates."

Each of the sunglasses came in a little black drawstring bag. To protect the lenses, John supposed. As they unwrapped them all, Paul explained he never knew which one to wear, so he usually just kept them in those pouches and grabbed a random pair before heading out the door. John supposed it was as good a method as any. They were all pretty cool, and he probably wouldn't know which one to choose, either. After a few minutes, they had them all sorted. There were so many colours! Yellow and green, yellow and pink, yellow and orange, green and blue, green and purple, rainbow, light blue and dark blue, blue and purple, blue and pink, purple and pink, purple and orange, orange and red: twelve colours in total.

He'd been wrong about the duplicates, though. There were more than he thought: the yellow and orange, green and purple, and purple and pink granny glasses had two of each, but also the light and dark blue, and purple and blue aviators. John immediately put on the pink and purple round lenses, whilst nearly poking one of Paul's eyes out as he tried to put the purple and orange aviators on him. "The sun is out. Let's go on the balcony and do selfies before it goes back into hiding."

"Yeah, alright. Let me grab my phone... And a camera," Paul added when he glanced outside. He could see a really clear rainbow starting to form. In fact, as he slid the sunglasses up into his nearly dry hair, he saw it was a double rainbow. He wanted to take a picture of that before it disappeared.

"You really have a great view from up here. How far can you see?"

"On a clear day, we can see the Mersey, but not with the naked eye. We can see the fireworks if the weather is right, though. It's too cloudy now. I reckon you can see Norris Green, maybe Everton, but probably not since it's raining in that direction." Paul finished taking his photos and took out his phone for the selfies John wanted. He supposed the first few were alright, but he seriously doubted he'd ever use the later ones. From the moment John cackled 'duck face!', it just got progressively worse. Grinning, Paul scrolled through what they had created. Some were actually not as bad as he feared, and the double rainbow was well visible in most of them. "Did you know that when there's a double rainbow, the second one is inverted? It has red on the inside, and purple on the outside."

John did not know that. He turned around and squinted at the now slowly fading arches. Without his glasses on - he'd left his contacts at home - it was difficult to focus. After a few seconds in which he strained his eyes to the point of the effort getting physically painful, he could make it out. Paul wasn't making shit up. The fainter rainbow, which was on the outside, was the wrong way 'round. "Well fuck me. How did you know that?"

"Mike taught me. He's a photographer, so he knows about things like that. Amazing, isn't it?"

"Bloody gorgeous," John muttered, gazing at the colourful display over Liverpool. It wasn't just the rainbow anymore; the sun was starting to set, so the clouds were lighting up in all kinds of shades of pink and purple and orange. But the star of the show was definitely that double rainbow, which would fade a bit, and then brighten again, until little by little it was breaking up. He didn't know why it made him so happy. Maybe it was because it was a beautiful sight at any time, but watching it shoulder to shoulder with someone he really liked somehow made it even more special. He looked sideways at Paul, smiling warmly at him as he looked back. That, right there, was a moment John wanted to remember forever. If he could only ever preserve one image, it was the way Paul's soul was wide open to him in that instant and the overwhelming fondness that was so visible in his expression.

Paul couldn't look away. John's eyes were too captivating and too alive to stop staring into them. In fact, they only drew him in more with each passing second, and Paul knew what would happen next. He didn't even have a choice; his limbs seemed to have developed a mind of their own, separate from all of his fears, regrets, doubts, and objections. Slowly, Paul brought his hand up and after a split instant's hesitation, placed it on the nape of John's neck whilst the small space between them seemed to disappear on its own accord. For a brief moment, his breath ghosted over John's face, their lips neither touching nor apart, but rather so close together he could feel the warmth that radiated from John's skin.

For a maddening moment, neither of them moved a muscle until finally, their lips connected. It was the lightest of kisses, just a brush of skin against skin, really, a tentative request for permission. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting in limbo, it was John who turned it into a proper kiss, bringing their bodies together fully by embracing Paul's waist and pulling him close. For a little while, they shared a soft, gentle kiss until Paul decided he wanted more. He allowed his hand to move up into John's hair, lacing his fingers in the soft curls as he increased the pressure, seeking access. He didn't have to wait long for it, and soon the kiss deepened into something more passionate, something needier. It had been a long time since Paul kissed another man, long enough to forget how much firmer, competitive, and exciting it was than with a woman. This was a quiet struggle for dominance, a constant ebb and flow of giving and taking which completely took his breath away. It wasn't until he felt himself getting hard that he pulled back, flustered, and slightly disoriented.

What a sight, John thought as he drank in the sight of Paul's face. The dishevelled look suited him, as did those wild eyes, which had grown dark with something very much resembling lust. He was out of breath, John could feel Paul's chest heaving against his own but then, he was in the same boat, not to mention rock hard. He waited so long for this, and now he finally knew what it was like to kiss Paul.

It wasn't enough. He wanted him, all of him, and he wanted it immediately. Pushing the younger, stronger lad into the nearest wall, John ravaged that glorious mouth again, drawing a deep, low moan from Paul as he thrust his pelvis forwards, allowing their clothed erections to collide. In one fast move, Paul turned the tables so that John found himself bumping slightly painfully into the opposite wall whilst Paul kissed him aggressively and hungry hands found their way underneath his sweater.

"I want you,' John groaned when his lips were released and Paul attacked his neck, sucking a bruising love bite right into the curve where John's throat met his shoulder. He arched into the touch when Paul's hand went lower, closer to where John needed to feel him the most. "I want you so mu-..."

Paul bit back a heartfelt curse when the doorbell rudely interrupted their tryst. Worst. Timing. Ever. Seriously, you couldn't make that shit up, Paul grunted to himself as the piercing sound of the doorbell chased away the lustful atmosphere faster than he had ever deemed possible. A minute later, and he would've had his hand down John's pants. Thank fuck for baggy joggers, he mused as he cast John a 'can-you-believe-this-shite' kind of smile and grinned, "food's here."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather eat you," John grumbled, trying to sort himself out.

Paul's wink nearly got him going again, especially when it was paired with that maddening comment. "There's always room for dessert, John..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please beware there will be increased amounts of ANGST in the next chapters (and other, nicer things, but definitely angst too). It's all in the best interest of the story, to explain what Paul has been through and to create a foundation for their relationship. I know some of you don't like angst and I promise I won't drag it on longer than I feel is needed, but it will be there. I think reading it will be worth it, though. You'll appreciate the dynamics of their bond and the end of the story better if you take to bad with the good.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> 1\. This chapter is short. I also feel it sucks. I wish it was better, but I'm just not good at these things.  
> 2\. By 'these things' I mean sex. This is an NC-17 chapter. Don't like sex scenes? Don't read. Maybe you shouldn't anyway. It's not very good at all.  
> 3\. Chapter 17 (that's the one right after this) will include severe ANGST and HURT (but also comfort!). I am, for the first time ever, going to include a TRIGGER WARNING for the worst part of it. If you are sensitive to graphic depictions of psychological and physical abuse, I advise you to skip those parts. 
> 
> Why am I telling you now? Simple: so you can think about it and decide whether you want to ignore the next update or not. I promise, this will be the only chapter that has that kind of sensitive content and it's only there to serve the character's love story. Should you have questions or concerns, please ask. I will not be offended and I'll be happy to address the questions you might have. To answer one concern some of you might have: I will NEVER write about non-con or rape, so you don't have to worry about that.
> 
> So, with that out of the way, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, even if I think it isn't up to snuff. My aim is to have chapter 17 up tomorrow. After that, we're entering the finale, for which the only warnings you need will be those of possible tooth decay or acute diabetes ;-)

"I thought you said you didn't teach adults," John muttered, his eyes trained on the telly. They'd been sat there for a bit by then, stuffed to the gills with ridiculously good Indian food which had made John reconsider his newfound relationship and wonder if he should track down the person who made the food and seduce them instead. He'd had his share of curry dishes, but the Tandoori chicken he'd wolfed down despite the pretty intense heat was up there with the best of them. He knew from experience it'd burn terribly on the way out as well, but a sore arse was a small price to pay.

He'd ignored the indignant protest and stolen some of Paul's chicken Chettinad too, which had a P and five stars scribbled next to it on the menu, telling John it was one of Paul's favourites. He could tell why: it was even spicier than the Tandoori, and one of the best things he'd ever tasted. Not even Richie could cook that well and that was saying a lot because John adored Ringo's food.

After dinner, with the dishes out of the way and the leftovers safely stored in the fridge for later, Paul had crashed down on the sofa first, grabbing the remote and tuned into his favourite channel before John even made it to the sofa. If they were going to watch TV rather than go straight up to bed, John had decided, then they had better make good use of the time so he'd nudged and wriggled until at last he got his way, which meant being given the room to sit with his back against Paul's chest, comfortably leaning into him. Well, he was comfortable, anyway. He wasn't hearing any complaints from Paul yet, who had wrapped his arms around him. "Why didn't you mention your YouTube channel?"

Paul shrugged. Hadn't occurred to him, he supposed. Or maybe it had, but he'd have to think about that later. He was too involved in the TV programme to make a massive effort. "Don't know," he finally said, moving his leg a bit to stop it from getting too numb. John was leaning into him just a bit too heavily if he was honest. He didn't want to spoil the mood so he didn't say anything, he just shifted about a bit to find a better position. "I guess because it's not really teaching. More like demonstrating or something, you know," he finally decided.

It was an old episode of Broadchurch. John had already seen it. But then, he guessed Paul had, too. How many times had those reruns been aired now? Of course, nearly everything was a repeat of something during the summer holiday. Still, it was a good episode, in which DI Hardy chose the responsibility of solving a murder over his own health. John loved that plot line and the intensity with which David Tennant played it. He couldn't think of a better actor for the role.

Out of nowhere, as the episode reached its end and the haunting closing credit music faded into the commercial break, John had a fleeting thought: the only way Paul could be even more attractive, was if he'd speak in David's heavy Glaswegian dialect. Was there anything sexier than that? Well... That exaggerated Scouse accent he'd adopted in that video wasn't half bad either. Speaking of which... "How is that not teaching? What's the difference?"

"Well," Paul started, wondering why John made such a big deal of it, "Guitar lessons are for people who can't play well enough yet. Song tutorials are for those who can. Erm... Think of it as Cards Against Humanity. Teaching is the base game, that's what you need to play. Song tutorials are the booster packs. They're nice to have and they make the game more interesting, but you don't need them."

"Wait, you've got Cards Against Humanity?"

Grinning, Paul shook his head. John could be such a scatterbrain sometimes. "No, Mike does. But anyway, do you see what I'm saying? Showing how to do a song is one thing. If they get it wrong, it's not a big deal; they'll pick another one or try some other time. But if people learn guitar the wrong way, you know, bad technique, or poor posture, or skipping over the difficult bits, then they won't even get to the point of playing songs."

John let that sink in for a moment. He supposed Paul had a point, he just wasn't sure he agreed. The way he saw it, people watched those videos because they didn't know a song. Afterwards, they did. Assuming they knew how to play at all. But maybe that was what Paul meant anyway, that you had to be taught first. "Fair enough. Could you teach me?"

"What, songs?"

"No, guitar. I mean I can play, right, I'm not a complete idiot or anything. I just never got 'round to really getting beyond the basic chords, and I can only play some simple songs. So it's both, I guess." He turned far enough to see Paul's face. "I will be expecting a discount, though. Being your boyfriend and all."

Boyfriend.... Paul had to let that one stew for a bit. Until then, he hadn't even stopped to think about that. On one level, it sounded a bit alien after several years of being mostly single, save for those times when he'd had a girlfriend. He supposed John was right to use the word, though, considering the amount of time they'd spent together, the way they had already reached that stage of being comfortable with each other, and the fact that there was going to be sex in the immediate future. Smiling, he met John halfway for a kiss and gave him a loving squeeze. "I might be open to persuasion. Got any ideas as to your bargaining strategy?"

"Several," John cackled, wiggling his eyebrows before settling back in the embrace for a bit, content to stay there for a little while longer. He enjoyed sitting like that, cuddled up against the slightly taller man, whose arms were wrapped around him, their weight creating a warm, comfortable cocoon for John to snuggle into. Which he did until the BBC News started and he got bored. As far as John was concerned, there was a time for hugging and a time for more. This was a time for more. Much more. Finishing his train of thought, he crooned, "I could tell you all about it over 'dessert' if you like. I think it's getting about time for that, right?"

Paul chuckled happily at John's sappy come on, and the way he didn't even wait for a reply but just assumed foreplay had started simply because he wanted it to. He couldn't deny having similar thoughts, but he wasn't going to give in without at least teasing John a bit. Ignoring the lovely things they made him feel, Paul pretended not to notice the nudges, kisses and caresses to his neck and ears. He struggled to swallow a throaty groan when John latched onto an earlobe, sending sparks of electricity up and down his spine. "Not now, John. I'm watching the news. Things are happening outside of this room, you know. I want to know what."

"Tell you what," John harrumphed, briefly interrupting his attempts to meet Paul's somewhat cloudy gaze. Who was that tosser trying to fool anyway? Did he really think John couldn't feel - or see, for that matter - how hard Paul was getting just from a few little kisses? "Crap happened. More shite is about to happen. Fuckers were born. Buggers died. Wankers are bombing each other. It'll be pissing rain. There's your news right there." Having finished his report, John moved out of the safety of Paul's arms and started tugging at the hem of his sweater, leaving no room for doubt as to what he had in mind.

"Well, now you've spoilt it, haven't you. Pretty shitty, fucked up thing to do, taking the piss like that," Paul grinned, keeping with the theme of John's news broadcast. His laughter got cut off seconds later by a sharp intake of air when John ruthlessly attacked a nipple with his mouth, sending shivers up Paul's spine. How did he know the effect it would have? The lopsided, victorious smirk John produced when he admired his handiwork was enough to settle the battle of wills. "You were saying something about dessert, John?"

_~*~_

John barely remembered how he'd made it to where he was: lying completely naked on that stripey blue duvet cover with Paul trapped underneath him, who was wearing exactly the same: nothing but an expression of utter lust and the sweat that was starting to break out all over his skin. He supposed, if he tried, he might recall how they barely let go of each other long enough to climb the stairs, and he suspected there might be a trail of discarded clothes between the sitting room sofa and the bed, but he had more pressing matters to tend to so he didn't dwell on those hazy memories.

Christ, had he ever wanted anyone more? Using his weight to keep Paul from doing anything, John allowed his mouth to search for sensitive spots, licking, sucking, and biting kisses into every bit of flustered skin he could reach, taking in all the little marks and freckles, tasting the salt and the delightful sweet musk that was Paul until the captive body was writhing, gasping breathlessly as John left his mark on a particularly tender spot on the side of his ribs. He revelled at the goose pimples that erupted wherever he touched, and the unearthly sounds coming from somewhere deep within.

Mercifully, he let go of Paul's wrists then, allowing him the use of his hands which immediately grabbed at his back, his neck, his shoulders... Paul forced up his head to capture John's mouth for a long, deep kiss whilst John nudged himself deeper between those legs for miles. He left little room for guesswork there, thrusting his cock roughly into Paul's. "Gonna make you mine, babe," he murmured hoarsely, changing his angle to indicate what he had in mind, the prospect of burying himself inside almost enough to fall over the edge right there.

"No," Paul growled, his voice lower than John ever heard it. Never had that warm, melodic voice sounded sexier than in that single, commanding syllable. Before he could recover from the tingles that dark sound sent through his nervous system, John found himself on his back, Paul towering over him in the most arousing display of dominance. John's breath hitched, the surprise of the change in dynamic so sudden, his mind raced to keep up until the meaning got explained to him in a way that brooked no denial. "My house, my rules," he heard Paul say, the passion oozing from each poorly enunciated word. John hadn't realised how much he wanted to be fucked until that very instant.

A surge of heat shot out from his crotch when Paul ground into him, again, and again, his tongue invading John's mouth even deeper than before. Red hot passion coursed through John's veins with such strength, it made his entire body thrum with an urgent need to be claimed. "Baby c'mon...." He was sure he;d go mad if he had to wait any longer. Panting, he writhed underneath Paul's touches, needing more. Unable to stifle a guttural moan, he planted the soles of his feet on the mattress and wildly bucked up into Paul's hip when his demands weren't met quickly enough. "Please..."

He lost himself in the never-ending cascade of burning hot kisses on his face, neck, chest, mouth... Paul's lips found their way back to John's, who welcomed the bruising invasion, allowing himself to be completely dominated. Suddenly, a sweet, unfamiliar smell forced itself into the heady, musky aroma that had overtaken the room. John didn't know what it was that made the scent so arousing. knowing what it had to be, probably, though his reeling mind couldn't find the word for it and the entire thing just evaporated from his mind when finally - agonisingly slowly but finally - that incredible sensation of Paul pushing into him put an end to any and all distracting thoughts.

For a brief moment, everything went quiet, and all John could do was feel. Feel how he was being entered for the first time in a long time, the sensation as odd as it was welcomed, as familiar as it was new. Someone uttered a drawn out groan, and it wasn't until a few beats later that he realised it was him. John vaguely noted how the hot burn was soothed by something tingling and cool. It felt almost too good to bear and if Paul hadn't moved as slowly as he did, John would've come that instant. He'd expected pain, but there wasn't any. There was only immense, overwhelming pleasure. Ready for more, he locked his ankles and squeezed, urging Paul to give him whatever he had to offer.

Before long, they established a rhythm, John eagerly pushing back to meet each thrust as his hands seemed to develop a mind of their own, clawing and clutching at the body that was invading his own, scratching at Paul's back, traveling up to tug at his hair, then down again to cup his arse, wordlessly begging for more whilst constantly making sounds only very few men had ever drawn from him.

With each thrust, the desperate need for release grew, always just out of reach but so, so close as the seconds turned into minutes and the minutes stripped away all sense of time. Little by little, John's muscles tightened and his thighs trembled with the impending release. He wouldn't last much longer, John knew, but he didn't want to finish first so he held on as their movements became increasingly erratic until finally, he felt Paul going rigid. A strangled, stuttered whine was muffled by the crook of John's neck as Paul rode out his orgasm, his skin clammy and his breath hot and raspy against John's skin.

Somehow, John had managed to keep himself from coming but now, he was aching for release. No longer able to bear it, he tried to reach down, needing so badly to have his own climax, but Paul was in the way, stopping him from finishing himself off. Before he could complain, though, that fruity smell was back, and now that strange, maddening tingle was on his cock. It calmed down the urge to come a bit, but not for long because just then, Paul took him into his mouth, sucking and licking with such abandon, it made John cry out in a register he didn't even know he could reach.

There were just too many sensations: the cool tingle of what John finally thought had to be some sort of lube, the heat and wetness of Paul's mouth, the way his tongue teased the sensitive spot right beneath the head whilst a clever hand teased his balls just so... It didn't take long for John to reach a blinding orgasm which washed over him with the force of a tsunami, momentarily robbing him of his breath, whilst Paul took everything John gave and just kept pleasuring him until the last wave finally passed.

John was utterly spent when he opened his eyes to the sight of Paul lying next to him, looking at him with that shagged out smile and those half-lidded bedroom eyes. He rolled over to the younger lad in search for a kiss, tasting himself and that strange lube on his tongue. Watermelon, he thought vaguely as his lips began to tingle.

Smiling, John moved to lie with his head on Paul's shoulder and nuzzled his neck, lazily running his fingers through the still damp hairs on his chest. He did so love body hair on a man, he thought blearily, struggling to keep his eyes open. The warmth of Paul's arms around him and the sound of his heartbeat lulled him even closer to the land of dreams. Before he drifted off entirely, John ran his fingers over a fresh love bite he sucked into Paul's skin, smiling softly at the possessive nature of it. Such a juvenile thing to do, really. "You're mine now," he muttered, his words slurring from sleep. "I'm never going to let you go..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broadchurch end credit song (worth a listen!)
> 
> Ólafur Arnalds - So Close ft. Arnor Dan: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rcg1ubkAeo


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - GRAPHIC MENTAL AND PHYSICAL ABUSE AHEAD
> 
> Chapters 17 and 18 will deal with Paul's backstory. It was originally going to be one chapter, but with 5000+ words it got far too long, so I'm splitting it into two.
> 
> Chapter 17 contains a very vivid flashback, which includes graphic depictions of violence. If you are unable to cope with that, I advise you not to read it. However, you should know that it's only a memory and that it helps solidify AU JohnandPaul's relationship. Most people should be able to read it and not get upset by it.
> 
> Chapter 18 handles the immediate aftermath of chapter 17 and is angsty, but not triggering. Chapter 18 will also have comfort and some fluff. That one should be safe for everyone to read.
> 
> Please know that this is COMPLETE AND UTTER FICTION. Yes, I have borrowed elements from darker times in RL Paul's life to make this sequence more realistic, but he has never lived through anything like that and I do not wish any actual harm on the people I base my stories on. In fact, I'd be heartbroken if anything remotely resembling the events in this fic would happen to RL Paul!
> 
> And, don't forget: there's a happy ending to this story. I've put all the hardcore hurt/angst into this chapter, so you should be safe after this. Also, it's safe to read once you've cleared the trigger waring. It'll still be emotional and angsty, but there will also be comfort and a little bit of fluff near the end.

!! TRIGGER WARNING - GRAPHIC MENTAL AND PHYSICAL ABUSE AHEAD. SKIP TO CHAPTER 18 IF YOU CAN'T HANDLE ABUSIVE SITUATIONS !!

 

Lifeless.

There was no other way to describe the face that stared back at Paul when he looked into the mirror. He'd been doing that less and less, the sight of his dead eyes too painful a reminder of the hopeless situation he'd gotten himself into. There was no reason to look, anyway. He knew his hair, which had grown past his shoulders, was beginning to get greasy after not having been washed for days. He knew how dark the shadow on his jaw was. Ironically, millions would be envious of the thickness of his beard, but Paul didn't grow one to be cool. He grew one because he no longer could be arsed to shave it off. He only ever took a bath or picked up a razor when he was told to. Nobody ordered him to for days, and so there was no need to scrutinise his reflection as he opened the medicine cabinet to retrieve his migraine powders.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The moment he heard that voice, Paul could feel his heart rising to his throat. It had already been pounding before. In fact, it hadn't stopped racing since he walked into his uncle Joe that morning when he'd been running an errand for Rory. Of course, it was always for Rory when Paul went anywhere. It didn't always use to be that way but it was now. And he would come back each time because he didn't have anywhere else to go anymore. Or so he had thought for a long time.

Now, he knew better. His uncle had told him so when he begged Paul to come home, to come see Mike, who was in such a bad state. Paul knew Joe hadn't lied when he said Mike was in hospital. McCartney men, at least those of his father's generation, didn't cry unless someone they loved was dead or dying, but uncle Joe had feared up right before he hugged Paul, right there in the street. That's how he knew it was true, and that he had to leave. He didn't care for himself anymore, but he'd sooner die than let any harm come to his baby brother, so he'd made up his mind. At least, that's what Paul had to keep telling himself. He wasn't sure he could be totally convinced of anything anymore, least of all his own willpower.

Once upon a time, not even that long ago, he'd been known for his strong character, his ability to commit to something and stick with it. What happened? Why had he allowed things to get this fucked up? He didn't even recognise himself anymore. Who was this weak, cowering, submissive person? Certainly not him? It couldn't be, and he'd prove it. If only he wouldn't be so terribly afraid. Yes, his heart had been pounding because that's what it often did nowadays, but now it beat so fast and so hard, he feared it might actually give out. Gathering every morsel of courage he could find, he muttered, "I'm packing." He didn't look at the man standing behind him, knowing it would rob him of the little bit of dignity he had left.

"Don't be silly, Paul. Why would you possibly be packing? It isn't as if you have anywhere to go, is it?" With a deceptively pleasant grin, Rory grabbed hold of Paul's arm, holding it just a little too tightly to be a friendly gesture. "Nobody wants you. Nobody even loves you but me, you know that."

"Yes, they do." He had to believe it, forced himself to hold onto the feeling of his uncle Joe holding him close. Why would he have cried out to Paul if he didn't care? "My family loves me."

"Do they, now? Think about it for a moment, baby," Rory sneered, each syllable cutting into Paul's soul like a hot knife. "Who would love a fat little cunt like you? It's hard enough for me to get turned on by you anymore, so why would anyone else want you?" The feigned kindness was completely gone from his voice now, and his grip was bruising. Paul knew he was in trouble. He didn't know yet how deeply, but he wasn't going to walk away unscathed. He learnt that lesson the last time he tried to escape, which resulted in a concussion and two broken ribs.

'Fallen down the stairs,' he'd said at A&E. How were they to know Rory's fancy penthouse flat on the docks didn't even have stairs? It wasn't as if he could tell the truth, not with Rory sitting there at his side, holding his hand and being the most caring partner in the world, just like he always did when strangers were around. Nobody would ever have guessed Rory was anything other than a doting partner because to the outside world, that's exactly what he was. Once they got home, Paul had been given a black eye to match the bruises on his ribs, for the simple reason of being too ill to be fucked. Rory didn't like it when Paul wasn't a hundred percent available to him. It was just one of the many things that had been completely different when they first got together.

All of that was going to be a thing of the past, Paul thought. He wasn't going to put up with the lies and the abuse anymore. Throwing caution to the wind, he roughly pulled his arm free, hissing slightly at the way the gesture ached. He'd be feeling that for days, but he either got out now, or he'd die in this poncey shithole. He stubbornly continued to cram a few toiletries into the old Eastpak his mum had given him for his fourteenth birthday: the last thing she ever bought him. The old cigar box that used to be his granddad's, in which he kept some photos and a few small trinkets, was already packed, wrapped safely in one of his oversized T-shirts. There was just one more thing he needed...

Paul stared longingly in the direction of the cavernous living room. His guitar was in there: his most prized possession, which he had worked so hard for to get. It was a great little guitar: expensive, too. When he first fell in love with it, he knew getting the nearly £500 it cost would be nearly impossible for an eleven-year-old, but he'd tried anyway. It had taken a year of saving every penny he got for his birthday, Christmas, doing so well on his eleven-plus exams, doing chores for people... He'd even asked his dad to set aside half of his weekly allowance, which wasn't that much to begin with.

He vividly remembered how he'd sat down at the kitchen table with his parents, anxiously counting his savings whilst Mike just sat there, his chin resting on his hands and a stunned expression in his wide, blue eyes. The boy who never shut up had been struck dumb; he'd never seen that much money in one place. Then again, neither had Paul. He'd been so happy when his mum checked the numbers, found a small adding error in Paul's favour, and gave him back the corrected sum: £508,25 in total. Just enough to get a spare set of strings and some plectrums as well. Or, so he'd thought. He'd broken down crying when after all that trouble, he discovered the price had gone up and came up £50 short. He was twelve, then, and it had been the biggest disappointment of his life.

A hint of a smile flickered across Paul's face when he relived the moment he'd been called downstairs two days later and it had just been there, large as life. As a reward for the dedication he'd shown, his parents had matched the difference and even gotten him a nice, sturdy guitar case and some bits and bobs to make sure it'd stay in the best possible condition. Every day since, Paul had played it, taken care of it, treasured it. Sometimes he'd just stare at it, admiring the way the abalone binding and rosette reflected the light in all colours of the rainbow. He truly loved that guitar, which looked so unique with its cutaway and satin finish. And the sound of it... When his mum died, it had been his sole source of comfort, just as it had always grounded him during the worst days at Rory's.

But now, it was out of reach. If he went for it, he'd never make it outside. If he left without it, he'd probably never see it again. To Paul, that guitar was his lifeline, one of the few things that connected him to his mother, the one thing that had kept him relatively sane in the past five years. To part with it was to cut out a piece of himself. He was frozen, couldn't make up his mind until his mother's voice came to him. 'Let it be, darling. There will be other guitars, but you only have one life. Run.' So he ran.

Paul had been quite athletic as a child. Not the type to really get into sports, but he did well in PE. He'd always been able to pull a sprint. However, that was then. Outrunning his classmates, most of whom were shorter than him anyway, was easy. Beating someone who was much fitter and five inches taller than him to the door proved too much of an endeavour. Rory caught up with Paul as he crossed the entry hall and roughly threw him into the wall. “Where do you think you're going? I don't remember telling you it was okay to leave, Paul.”

Even now, that he couldn't remember what happy felt like and he'd stopped taking care of himself, he still wasn't allowed to go. It was strange, really. Rory valued beauty and status more than anything but now that Paul looked like shit, he still wasn't sent on his way. Sure, he'd been cheated on - repeatedly, and more than once when he was there to witness it - and not a chance was missed to tell him how unattractive he'd gotten, but leaving wasn't permitted. How fat would he have to get? How unkempt? How depressed? “I just want to go home. I don't understand why you won't let me go when you don't even like me anymore…”

A blinding punch to the face brought Paul to his knees. He tasted blood and as he looked at the hand that had flown up to his mouth, he saw blood as well, but he didn't get time to figure out whether he'd bitten down on his cheek, or if it came from something else because not a split second later, he cried out in agony from the kick he'd received to his stomach. Three more kicks rained down on him, the last of which hit the arm he used to shield himself so hard, Paul couldn't just feel, but actually hear the bone breaking. Unable to produce any more sound, he lay there gasping, choking on his tears, terrified of what was coming as Rory bent over him.

“Get this through your thick skull: I am never going to let you leave me. I’ll sooner see you dead, understand?” To Paul’s horror, Rory grabbed his throat. How could it be that those startlingly blue eyes which used to be so full of mischief and affection, now looked so cold and cruel? What had he ever done to deserve this kind of treatment? Paul tried in vain to peel the fingers from his neck, writhing and kicking his feet in desperation. Was this how the fairytale would end? In his mind, he could see the headline which would appear somewhere on page seven of the local newspaper: ‘Liverpool Youth (19) Found Dead After Domestic Dispute’ or something like that.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be, was it? Rory swore to take care of him, and he had, at first. Paul would never have left his family, and certainly wouldn't have stayed with Rory if he didn't know how good it could be between them. Why had it changed, and why hadn't he seen it coming? He struggled harder, trying to hit Rory with his shattered arm until the taller man simply put his knee on the injury and pressed down, causing Paul to howl despite having barely enough air to even breathe. “You are mine. I, and I alone decide when you can go, or whether or not you can live.” With that last, venomous remark, he squeezed tighter, robbing Paul of his breath. He tried one last time to break free, but little by little he got dizzier until everything just went black.

"Paul! Jesus Christ, Paul, wake up!"

John’s mind raced to keep up with what was happening. One moment, he'd fallen asleep in his new lover’s arms. Next thing he knew, he was rudely awakened by Paul’s thrashing and flailing. In the pale light of early dawn, he’d seen how the still sleeping face was contorted in obvious panic and if that hadn't been enough of a clue, the desperate sounds Paul made definitely were. John was glad that he'd at least managed to wake him up, but it obviously wasn't over yet.

Paul had woken up covered in cold sweat, wheezing hoarsely, and clearly choking on his tears. Seconds later, he’d run into the bathroom where John could hear him being violently ill. Not the kind of thing he’d expected after the great time they'd had together. Still confused, he slipped into the terrycloth bathrobe that hung on the back of the door and grabbed the blanket Paul had draped over him the previous day when he'd fallen asleep in the middle of stroking Janeway. He crouched down and wrapped the blanket around Paul, who luckily wasn't throwing up anymore, but still sat on the floor, trembling like a leaf. “You alright?”

Paul didn't really know how to respond to that. He supposed he was okay since all of that crap was in the past. But he still felt terribly exhausted and emotionally drained. He shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around his naked body. He at least felt safer now, and the idea that John cared enough to help when they had only just gotten together did a lot to calm him down. “I guess. Thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He had no idea what could possibly have gotten Paul this upset. It had to be massive because John had gotten to know him as a very strong, resilient, and positive character. Whoever was responsible for this - John assumed it was a person, simply based on the fact that Paul had sounded as if he was pleading with someone - had a lot to answer for. But the main thing now was to see that boy smiling again, so John pulled him into a hug and squeezed him tightly. “Why don't I fix you a nice cuppa, right? Everything will look brighter after a good cup of tea.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still quite a bit of angst in this one, and it won't be the easiest chapter to read, but I ecommend you all do read it, because I think you'll like some of the stuff I put in there.
> 
> This chapter is LONG...!!

“Christ, Paul, I had no idea…”

The story had left John devastated. Silent tears ran down his face by the time Paul's monologue broke off into a single, strangled sob which left John's heart aching. He’d sensed something was the matter with Paul ever since they met up at Pride. There had been too many signals when they’d sat on that terrace, drinking milkshakes and chinwagging about Christ knows what. He’d caught those fleeting looks of panic when he dialled the flirting up too high, and noticed the reluctance to accept gifts or even let someone else pay for his food. There were other little things that made him wonder, as recent as when they fell into bed together. The way Paul had refused to be topped sprang to mind.

At first, John had filed many of the oddities into the ‘he’s just a people-pleaser’ pile or the ‘Paul is a dom’ pile, or even the ‘everyone’s weird, so why can't he’ pile. There had been other, less likely piles. One of them was the ‘bad relationship’ one. Initially, John had dismissed that option because: Paul. Had he ever known anyone who had a brighter outlook on life, a sunnier disposition, a stronger mind, a bigger heart, a…

Christ. That was it, wasn't it? A bigger heart than anyone John knew. But that was exactly what attracted those sick bastards who wanted to exploit someone. It was that kindness, that forgiving nature that made it easy to manipulate people like Paul into a situation that had no way out. Appeal to their nurturing tendencies, their need to make other people happy. Make them feel loved, make them feel needed, and they'd never give up trying to fix you, or make you happy. And then, once you had their full devotion, you could do anything. Make them believe they were worthless, that they deserved to be humiliated and beaten, that it was all their fault and that it'd get better as long as they stayed and tried even harder to please their partner.

John had seen it happening to friends, knew how stealthy and effective those abusers were. Paul never stood a chance. Not at sixteen when he was too young to even begin suspecting that some people were narcissistic sociopaths. John knew. He'd always known. Long ago, he'd been well on his way to becoming one before endless therapy sessions changed him into a better, happier person. He still had his moments. The pepper incident came to mind. His possessive, nasty streak had risen to the surface then. Seeing it backfiring like that had, thankfully, pushed those dark tendencies back into their cage.

Deep down, John had known it actually was a real possibility. He just hadn't wanted to think of Paul in that place, because he didn't deserve that kind of pain. Nobody did. To find out that this was exactly what happened and that he had seen the signs hurt. So. Fucking. Much. What kind of monster could ever do that to someone like Paul, especially after what he'd already gone through with his mum? Which twisted, evil mind could look at a damaged teenager and think: 'yeah, I'll turn that one into my bitch?' It wasn't right, but clearly, it was reality and what actually happened turned out to be even worse than John could have imagined. Who would try and strangle the life out of that gorgeous human being? How could anyone even bear to lay a finger on someone so full of charm and wit?

John momentarily released the hand he'd been holding throughout most of the conversation in favour of handing Paul his tea mug and a wad of tissues. They were on their second round of tea by now, and they were running low on hankies. Some liquid courage wouldn't have been amiss, but there didn't seem to be a single drop of booze in the house so it'd have to be just the tea and some of the sweets that were left over from the film marathon. Chocolate helped. It always helped. Even now, Paul looked a little bit more alive as he chewed on one of the leftover Maltesers.

"How did you manage to get out?"

The memories of what happened after that dreadful fight were vague. When he'd regained consciousness, Paul had been in more pain than he could handle, making it nearly impossible to form any coherent thought. His actions had been purely instinct-driven: fight or flight, and with Rory out of sight, he'd fled. In hindsight, he'd understood that the beating hadn't stopped after he passed out, but none of that had registered when he'd limped out that door. It hadn't even occurred to him to wear shoes or a coat.

It must have been an unsettling sight to see an unkempt, bloodied up lad wearing nothing but a soiled T-shirt and dad-jeans collapsing in the freezing cold of November, clutching a ratty old rucksack and a broken arm to his chest. Considering the posh neighbourhood and the snobs that lived there, it was a miracle he'd been helped by that middle-aged lady in her expensive designer clothes who'd knelt at his side, holding his hand and brushing the hair from his face as she told him it was going to be alright, assured him that help was on the way. Which it had, though Paul had no recollection of that. He'd passed out again before the ambulance had arrived.

"I don't remember much of it," he finally told John. He didn't want to speak too much, not with him choking up every few words. It was difficult enough to drag those memories up from the depths of his soul, describing them aloud was even harder. "I kept passing out, you know. It's mostly bits and pieces. I remember waking up alone. Rory must've been nearby, probably high or something. He'd been into speedballing a lot in those days. Maybe he thought I was dead, or maybe he finally had enough of me, I don't know. I saw my chance and I left. I don't think I even made it to the corner before my legs gave out. It's mostly emotions and little details from there. I didn't really start to think properly again until the next morning when they moved me from the observation ward to Mike's room. My uncle arranged for that. I'm glad he did, though. I felt loads better once I could see Mike. You know, since he was the reason I decided to leave and all that."

There was so much information in that little speech, John didn't even know what to process first. If Rory was on drugs, did that mean Paul had used too? And if so, had he been addicted? John didn't think it likely, considering Paul's choice of words. Also, he probably wouldn't have wanted to leave his source if he had been a junkie, so he was happy to assert none of that had been going on. The part about being unable to stay conscious was worrisome. How badly had Paul been beaten? It had to be severe if he kept passing out. Apparently, he'd been in hospital for at least a few days, and what was up with Mike? He'd not been told what he was in for. So many questions...

Paul must've read his mind somehow because he picked up a small stack of photos and pulled one out. "Uncle Joe took this the day after they transferred me. Erm... It's not pretty, but I wanted him to do it because it shows the truth, you know?"

John couldn't help but gasp when he saw the photo. What shocked him about it wasn't that Paul looked about fifteen stone - a stark contrast to the eleven stone he weighed now - or that he clearly hadn't shaved in a week or so. What stood out was the utter sadness in his eyes. Even his hair seemed to have lost its shine. His entire body language screamed depression. It made him want to find a time machine and just hug that boy until he smiled again. Then again, that probably would've been bloody painful. What the fuck had that bastard done to Paul? It had to be more than a few kicks, or there wouldn't have been a drip going into the back of the hand that held onto Mike’s so tightly the knuckles had gone white.

How telling was it that Mike, who was the one stuck in bed, looked at his brother with such concern on his face? John couldn't blame him. Apart from having his arm in a cast, John also saw the outlines of bandages around Paul's rib cage through the thin fabric of that hospital gown. He'd put a tenner on a broken cheekbone as well, considering the amount of swelling and the purple bruises surrounding that area of his face. He glanced sideways at Paul’s face, taking a closer look at the scar in his eyebrow. Was the wound that caused it hidden underneath that big, white plaster on his forehead?

"Remember yesterday, when you couldn't find any booze and you joked if I'd become a Teetotaller? This is why there isn't any alcohol in the house," Paul explained, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the heaviness of the conversation. It had, after all, been a hilarious back and forth and well, there was always room for a bit of fun, wasn't there?

John grinned, relieved to see a spark of Paul's spirit shining through the darkness. "You mean, when you told me about drunkenly declaring your love for me to some unsuspecting old lady because you're such a lightweight, four measly pints will get you pissed as a newt? Nah, doesn't ring a bell, son."

"Yeah, well. If you repeat it to anyone, I may have to remember how you thought that drag king was an actual bloke."

"You wouldn't!" It was only one of John's most embarrassing memories. He had no excuse; he'd been drunk, but nowhere near as bad as Paul. He glanced sideways to see Paul had gotten serious again. Maybe not as much as before, but he clearly wasn't done yet. "What are you trying to say, babe?"

Paul swallowed. If he hadn't left the house when he did, chances were things would've been different. Maybe it wasn't all his fault, but he had a hand in it. No wonder his dad kept reminding him of how he'd let everyone down. He'd never outright blamed Paul for Mike's fate, probably because he knew very well it wasn't fair to do so. It had been him, Jim, who'd turned to drink first, forcing his teenage son into the caregiver role. But the implication had always been there, and it was just one of several reasons why the peace between him and his father was so strained.

Paul couldn't deny that he held a grudge against his father for that, and also for the man's willful ignorance about his sexuality. According to Jim, Paul should just have gone out and found a nice girl since, according to his logic, swinging both ways meant having a choice to either be straight or gay. To this day, he either couldn't or wouldn't understand that it didn't work that way and that his homophobic ideas didn't do much to lift the tension between him and Paul.

But, he did have a point, Paul thought. Choosing Rory over his family had been stupid, selfish, and irresponsible. If he hadn't done that, Mike probably wouldn't have become an alcoholic. And for that, Paul couldn't let himself off the hook. "The alcohol. There isn't any here because of Mike. He drank himself into a coma. When uncle Joe spoke to me, he'd only just woken up for the first time in three days. That's what motivated me to leave Rory, and that's why my uncle arranged for us to share a hospital room. After everything I'd done, Mike kept asking for me. I had to be there for him, you know? I'd already abandoned him once, I wasn't going to let him down again."

Well, that cleared up a lot. John wasn't going to go into the way Paul accused himself of being responsible for something he couldn't possibly have foreseen. He sensed Paul wasn't going to change his mind on that simply because John would tell him it wasn't his fault. Which it wasn't. Paul had just been a kid, and stressed out at that, so he could hardly be held responsible. What he wanted to know was, where his dad Jim had been in all of this. This uncle Joe had been mentioned a lot, and apparently, he'd been the one arranging all sorts of things for Paul and Mike, but why didn't he mention his father even once? He wondered if he should bring it up or not, but then John's train of thought got interrupted by Paul, who sighed deeply and rubbed both palms across his face. His entire posture just seemed to sag in that moment.

"Knackered?"

"Fucking exhausted," Paul murmured, resting his face in his hands. He was clearly all talked out for now.

John turned sideways and patted the space between his legs. This seemed like a good moment to take advantage of his ability to sit comfortably in weird positions. "C'mere." After a moment's hesitation, Paul scooted over to curl up in the spot John created for him, leaning his side into John's chest. He shifted about a bit to get comfortable, but eventually settled in, his face buried in John's neck.

Not sure if Paul had fallen asleep or not, John absentmindedly ran his fingers through the thick mop of black hair that slightly tickled his jaw. It was lovely to sit like that, it truly was. And he was sure he could stay like that for a very long time. Yet, at the same time, questions began to form in the back of his mind, getting more persistent as the quiet moments turned into minutes and Paul's breathing got increasingly slow whilst John's mind was working increasingly fast.

There were still so many things he wanted - no, needed - to know. How he'd coped with it all, for instance. How had Paul gotten back on his feet, and would he be able to do it now, or was the genie out of the lamp? And what had triggered that nightmare? Would it happen again? He wasn't entirely sure he could go through another episode like that. John had his own issues to deal with. Paul knew that; he'd told all about the therapy he'd had to get a handle on his abandonment issues and the jealous tendencies when he'd apologised to Paul, a little over a week ago. Could he be in a relationship with someone who turned out to be even more fucked up than he was? Could Paul be the kind of partner he needed?

It occurred to him that even though he'd very much wanted to be fucked last night, he wouldn't always want it to be that way. But would Paul ever be ready to not be in complete control, or would being with him put John in the same position Paul had been forced into by Rory: the perpetual bottom? John didn't mind offering a strong shoulder. But this whole supportive partner thing wasn't his strong suit, and he had his needs too. Usually, he was the one needing the most support. Would Paul be able to offer that if he was so messed up over what happened with Rory?

He'd seemed like the perfect partner, but what if he wasn't as strong as John thought he was? Was it any use to really start a relationship if it was probably going to be dysfunctional, and quite possibly doomed? In short: was he going to go for it, or cut his losses now? But at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder if he could actually do that. Did he have it in him to walk away? Would he forgive himself for it if Paul took it personally and ended up even more damaged? He didn't know. He simply didn't know anymore.

"I won't blame you if you can't handle this, John," Paul suddenly murmured quietly, a definite hint of sadness in his voice. John jumped a little. He thought Paul was asleep. Apparently, he'd sensed the doubt or something like that, because when he raised his head to meet John's eyes, it was obvious he know what John was thinking. "I'm alright, John, but I can't promise something like that won't ever happen again. I understand if you don't want my crap on top of your own issues. I'd hate to see us part, but I won't hold it against you if you want to break this off."

John just sat there, blinking dumbly. Was that what he wanted? The easy way out? Or was he going to trust in the Paul he'd gotten to know and love? Would it be worth it to take the bad with the good? "Where's your phone? I just remembered something important I need to take care of."

Of all the things he'd expected, the last thing Paul had thought was for John to borrow his phone at that exact moment. The least he could do was put him out of his misery first. He'd felt him withdrawing, noticed how John had stopped playing with his hair. Even his chest seemed less inviting after a few minutes. So, if he was going to end the weekend the way he'd started it: single, he'd rather know now so he could lick his wounds in peace. Frowning, he noticed John had opened one of his rarely-used social media apps. "Facebook? I thought you said it was important."

"It is." Ignoring Paul's incredulous harrumph, John started out by approving his friendship request which was still pending. Seriously, who didn't go on Facebook for more than a week? Hoping he could remember his password, he logged out of Paul's account and into his own. Sixty-four notifications, couldn't these people stop tagging him in everything? Smirking at the confused expression on Paul's face, John went to his profile page, made his changes, and saved. Happy with the result, he gave Paul his phone back. "I think you'll find it was very important indeed."

Frowning, Paul looked at the app. The first thing he saw was one of the selfies they'd taken the night before. More specifically, the 'ugly selfie' one, in which they had managed to look utterly hideous. Of course, he was tagged in it. And the likes were already piling up. Great. He'd never live that down. But then, he saw the caption: 'In a Relationship.' Little by little, the meaning of it sank in. John had made his choice, and this was his way of not simply saying it, but proving it. Paul never thought he'd see the day when a Facebook status would make him well up with happy tears.

"I think that'll show up on your profile too, once you accept the tag," John explained, drinking in the sight of that megawatt smile that just broke out all over Paul's face. He knew he'd made the right choice. How could he ever have doubted that? So what if Paul had a bad day? Everyone was entitled to that. If anything, it should be positive. They could only go up from there. He mirrored Paul's smile and quickly planted a small peck on is nose. "Assuming you want to. But you better, or my friends will never let me forget it."

_~*~_

"I'm home!" Cursing the perpetual English rain, Mike tossed his bag on the floor and headed straight for the loo. The heavy downpour always made him burst, so of course, the benign drizzle had turned into a bloody cloudburst when he was halfway home. He'd been squeezing it in for nearly an hour! When he emerged again a minute later, the flat was as quiet as it had been when he walked in. He'd half expected Paul to be there, but then you never knew.

"Paul, you in?" He strained his ears for a response. Nothing. Oh well. He'd have to catch him later, then. In the meantime, Mike was getting hungry. Time for a snack, he reckoned as he left his spot at the bottom of the stairs and made a beeline for the food, stopping dead in his tracks when he turned the corner into the sitting room.

Sacked out on the sofa was none other than the missing sibling, curled up against the equally comatose figure of John. All around them were the silent witnesses of what appeared to have been a serious conversation: balled up tissues all over the floor and coffee table, half-empty mugs of cold tea, chocolate, and some photos Mike hadn't seen in ages: images of very painful memories neither he nor Paul liked to rehash. He picked up the hospital photo. To this day, Mike knew that Paul blamed himself for the fact that his baby brother had become an alcoholic in a vain attempt to drown the pain. On some level, Mike was glad it happened because something told him Paul would not have lived to tell John about what happened if he hadn't gotten out when he did.

"Took you long enough Paul," Mike sighed, hoping this there was a happy ending in sight for his brother, who had been so scared to truly fall in love again. Grinning, he took a quick snapshot of the napping lovebirds and posted it to Facebook, adding the cheeky note 'Looks like our kid found himself a stray ginger... again' with a winking emoticon to show he meant no malice. They made a good-looking couple, Mike thought. He'd have to take some proper photies of them together. Perhaps for his graduation project...

As he trudged upstairs, the idea slowly took shape in Mike's head. It'd take a while to suss out the details and even longer to put it all together, but he had time. After all: he wasn't graduating for another nine months, and his Spider Senses told him John would probably still be around by then...

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! The drama is over! Well, the sad drama anyway. The boys are discussing a few more things, but you'll get a lovely surprise at the end! Bet you didn't see THAT one coming!!
> 
> This chapter got quite long. I don't think the remaining two will have quite as many words, but you never know...

"Smile!"

Feeling like a kid in a sweets shop, John aimed his phone at Paul, who was busy scrolling through his contacts. Sometime before midday - John had no idea how late exactly, just that it had been after ten and before twelve - he and Paul had hoisted their lazy arses up off the settee and caught a bus to the city. About half of the way there, John had been ribbing Paul about his domesticity, and the other half thinking how thoughtful it was that he'd popped John's clothes into the wash the night before. Personally, he wouldn't have minded walking around in Paul's clothes some more but at the same time, it was nice to slip into his own jeans which now smelt like Paul's fabric softener.

Once they'd gotten off the bus at Central, John had made a beeline for the O2 shop. He was sick and tired of not having a phone, especially since he had to pay his monthly plan, regardless of whether he actually used it or not. Thankfully, he was nearly due for a new device anyway, so he'd haggled a bit and had walked out of the shop with a renewed contract and a brand new phone. He and Paul had gone to a nearby Irish pub for lunch and of course, John had not put down his new toy since. So far, Paul had sent him the photos from their time together, and now John was adding the new contacts. He wanted a nice picture to go with Paul's card, but the fucker hadn't looked up yet. "Come on, Macca, give us a wink."

"Do you want these contacts or not?" Why wasn't there an option to send these things in bulk? It wasn't so bad to send one or two this way, but they'd met so many people at Pride, the process of AirDropping them one by one was getting tedious. And now John was behaving like a five-year-old again. Paul was still rolling his eyes at the nauseatingly sentimental ringtone John had selected for him. He used different ringtones for different people too, but seriously, wasn't 'Wild Thing' just a wee bit over the top? As in: embarrassingly so? Oh well, that was John, he supposed: the master of grand gestures. Speaking of gestures... John was still waving that phone about, waiting for Paul to strike a pose. It took some effort to school his face, but when John quickly tapped the shutter button, he captured Paul's best scowl, paired with both hands raised in identical two-fingered salutes.

"That's a good lad," John cackled. He was going to cherish that picture; it was infinitely funnier than anything he had expected. He was glad to see Paul in such a great mood after the rough night they'd just survived. John's mind wandered back to that heavy conversation, and the things he'd discovered. Somehow, he couldn't shake the thought that he had been a big part of why Paul had gotten so distraught. Maybe not because of something he actually did, but more due to him being who and what he was.

The parallels couldn't be denied. The resemblance between himself and Rory was superficial and fleeting, but it was there. They both had long faces and similar noses, both had an air of authority about them, and both had curly hair with a bit of red in it. Sure, Rory was mostly blond, and his eyes weren't remotely like John's: round and deep blue, making him look years younger than he was. His facial structure was rather different too, with those high cheekbones that could cut glass. Plus, he was much taller and much more athletically built than him.

But none of that was what haunted John. He'd recognised something else in Rory: there was an alarming possessiveness hidden in that charming, handsome exterior. The contrast between Rory's casual arrogance and the uncharacteristic way Paul made sheep's eyes at him in that picture was a source of worry for John.

There was a time when he had been in a relationship with a similar dynamic. A little over a year after his mum died, John had gotten a flat with his then-boyfriend Tom: a moderately successful artist who worked at the little studio at the back of the art supply shop where John had started working several months earlier. Despite the nine-year age gap, they'd gotten along like a house on fire. At first, neither had seen the signs of trouble but the longer they lived together, the more obvious it had become that John's fear of abandonment was causing him to strangle the life out of the relationship.

As time progressed, he'd gotten needier, hadn't wanted to do things by himself, and hadn't wanted Tom to go off and do his thing, either. Little by little, the jealousy had taken on an oppressive nature. The neediness had drained all of the spontaneity from the relationship. Without meaning to, John had poisoned every part of what used to be a deep and meaningful love affair until after the umpteenth warning, Tom had up and left. Things had spiralled out of control for John after that. He'd gotten fired from the art shop, and nearly got evicted from the flat he couldn't afford on his own.

He'd managed to find a solution for that in the form of a flatmate, which was where George came in. He had also proven to be someone who didn't take any bullshit. One night, when John had drunk himself into a fit of rage again, George in his calm demeanour had quietly suggested John should go back to the therapist he'd seen to cope with the loss of his mum. It had done him a lot of good, except for one thing: he still was too afraid to really love again, so he'd continued the endless stream of short-lived flings and one night stands, pushing his lovers away the moment they started to really mean something to him.

That is until he met Paul. His therapist had assured him many times that he shouldn't be afraid to make the same mistake again, that five years of therapy had given him all the tools and insight he needed to make it work. But even though he'd shared all of these doubts with Paul, who had pointed out the many ways he had already proven to have changed for the better, John still wasn't convinced he hadn't somehow been the reason for Paul's anxiety.

"John? Did you hear me?"

Blinking profusely, John pulled himself back into the present, where he found himself staring a hole into Paul's chest whilst the owner of said chest looked at him with warmth and concern in his eyes. John forced a smile and tried to shake off the troubling train of thought. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked if you still wanted me to help you put together some outfits like you asked me to," Paul repeated, pushing away the plate he had finished. "There's a good retro shop near here. I get a lot of my things there."

It took a good ten seconds, but then John remembered what Paul was talking about. On the bus into the city, he'd mentioned his job and how he felt out of place in the improvised James Dean style Paul had created for him at Pride. Everyone else, including most of the customers, had the look down pat but he was still winging it with the rolled up T-shirt- and trouser cuffs, and his poor excuse for a DA. Since it looked like he was going to be working at Petticoats for a while, John wanted a proper fifties wardrobe, not to mention some instructions on how to do his hair. And who better to ask than the lad who'd been perfecting that look for a decade? He'd decided to sacrifice a good chunk of his savings on it and had asked Paul for help, but they'd gotten so engrossed in their conversation about John's abandonment issues that he'd completely forgotten about it.

"Yeah, of course," he nodded, pulling out his wallet to pay for the food they'd just finished eating. "But while we head there, there's something I want to ask you, and I need an honest answer. It's about what happened this morning. Are you okay to talk about that some more?"

Paul raised his hand in reply to the pub owner who waved them goodbye and lead the way to the door, John in tow. "Sure. Let's walk and-... " In the middle of his sentence, Paul stopped dead in this tracks, causing John to crash right into his back. Ignoring the muffled curse, he pointed up and gasped, "What the fuck is that thing up there?"

Barely recovered from the shock of just about bashing his face in, John followed Paul's appealed gaze. "Jesus Christ! You think it's dangerous? Maybe we should go back inside, Paul. That doesn't look right. I don't like the sight of that at all."

"Yeah, me neither. It's hot and everything. Can't be healthy..." Paul cast one more suspicious look at the eerie thing in the sky and then John's expression finally cracked him up. "Fancy ice cream, then? My treat."

Won again, John smirked to himself. No matter how hard he tried, Paul never could win these silly games. "Well I wasn't going to pay, was I? I just bought you lunch, didn't I? Go on, daft sod. We're blocking the doorway." Squinting, he followed Paul into the sun that had finally come out after hiding for the better part of five days. Perhaps August wasn't going to be entirely drowned, after all, he mused as they made a beeline for the nearest ice cream parlour.

Mere minutes later Paul was slowly leading the pair of them in the direction of his favourite shops, holding his frozen treat (two scoops: chocolate and banana) in one hand, whilst holding John's hand with the other. "So, what were you going to ask, Johnny?"

"That nightmare," John started, interrupting himself to stop his ice cream from dripping all over his front, "do you know what caused it? Is it something I did?"

"No, nothing you did, I don't think," Paul mused. he'd been thinking about that himself and he thought he had it figured out. He just hoped John wouldn't take it as a personal attack. "But. There's something you said. I'm not sure, mind you, and I don't want you to take it badly, but I think that might've set it off."

"What'd I say?"

"It was something you mumbled when you were falling asleep," he said carefully, keeping his voice pleasant. "I don't even know if I heard it right, you know. You were so far gone already. Sounded like 'you're mine,' and 'I'm never letting you go,' or something like that. Rory said almost exactly the same thing when he... Well. The day I left. That might've been it. Might not have, I don't know."

John blanched. He didn't even remember saying that, though he could imagine having done, in the spirit of feeling all cuddly and loved up. "Christ. I'm so sorry. You know I didn't mean it in a negative way, don't you? I mean, I don't want to let you go, but I would if you wanted to."

"Of course I know that John," Paul was quick to respond, squeezing John's hand a little tighter to reassure him. "I know you think you're like him, but you're not; not at all. I mean, I thought you might be, at first, when you came on so strongly, you know. I thought you were dangerous and that I should keep away from you. I think that's why I didn't tell you I was bi. I hadn't figured out if you were like him yet. But now I know. I wouldn't be here with you otherwise, you know."

"But how can you be so sure? After what I told you, you have to know how much like him I really am."

It really hurt Paul to hear that chastising tone in John's voice, He had avoided talking about this for exactly that reason: he didn't want t John to blame himself for something he had no part in. But, it also made it easier for him to illustrate why he wasn't like Rory. "I know, John, because of this. Right here. You, questioning yourself, you being concerned about your motives and my wellbeing. This exact conversation, and the one we had before, and the ways you've shown your caring side. You were so loving and gentle with me this morning, John, you really made me feel better."

Having finished his ice cream cone, Paul turned to John fully, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Can't you see? Rory never did any of those things. I mean, he was really nice at first, but in hindsight, there was always something off about it. When he apologised for something it was always with a 'but' attached, you know? It was never his fault. He never wondered if he was too controlling, or too possessive. He didn't want to change because he didn't acknowledge he was doing things wrong. He was constantly trying to change me to fit his standards. You don't. You're just as geeky as I am and you don't apologise for it. I can be myself around you. I've only ever had one other lover who made me feel that way, and it sure as hell wasn't Rory. But you know the biggest difference? You've learnt from your mistakes, John. You went and got help, and you're asking yourself and me if your behaviour is the way it should be. You care about me. Rory only ever loved Rory. That's why I trust you, that's why I feel safe with you. You're not like him at all. Maybe you had the potential for it once, but you've outgrown that. Please, stop comparing yourself to him. You're an infinitely better man than he could ever hope to be."

The longer Paul spoke, the more impassioned his words had become. John had not seen his face so alive with emotion yet. At least, not those kinds of emotions. It made him well up to think that someone would hold him in such high regard. It was plain to see Paul meant every word, though. And that only made him want to cry even more. "Wow. That was some speech."

"I know. It had to be said. C'mere..." Noticing how John had gotten a bit teary-eyed, Paul winked playfully at him and pulled him in for a kiss. He didn't care that people were watching, nor that some probably didn't like the idea of two blokes snogging in the middle of the street. Sometimes, a kiss was exactly what the doctor ordered and this was one of those times. After one last little peck, he comically smacked his lips and crooned, "hmmm, strawberry. Nice."

He couldn't help it. Paul's face was such a picture of glee, John just had to laugh at the silly bugger who'd cheered him up so easily. "And watermelon, son. Don't forget to mention that. Your bloody fault I had a craving for it. You and your fancy lube..."

"Oh, you liked that then, did you?"

John snorted loudly at the feigned innocence. As if he didn't know! They probably heard him all the way over in Bootle when Paul was sucking him off so expertly. "Liked it? I've never come so hard in my life thanks to that stuff making my naughty bits all tingly and all that. Fucking brilliant, that was."

"Maybe we should get some more, then. But I'm warning you: you better be the one using it on me next time. It was my idea, after all." Paul just left that one hanging between them for a moment, knowing John would understand what he was trying to say. Sure enough, after a few beats, John squeezed his hand to tell him he got the message. It was a big step for him, but he couldn't imagine taking it with anyone else. Relieved to get that out of the way, he crossed the street to the mod clothing shop. "Alright, Johnny, let's turn you into a proper greaser then, yeah?"

_~*~_

George wanted to throw shit. His gig got cancelled at the last moment due to a short-circuit at the venue, his drummer and rhythm guitarist were at each other's throat again, and he was hungry. It didn't help that he nearly broke his neck over a massive pile of shopping bags when he walked into the door, causing him to knock his favourite guitar into the wall. Okay, so it was safe inside its case, but still. He was supposed to be the messy one and now John had littered the floor with shoe boxes and who knows what else.

Grumbling, he zigzagged through the obstacle course and headed to his room, pointedly ignoring John as he passed the sitting room. He didn't mind that John was sat on the sofa, making out with what George supposed had to be the bloke he'd been going on about for over a week. If anything, it was a nice change of pace to not hear a different name every other day. It was just that he'd seen so many blokes coming and going, he wasn't going to pay much attention to this one until he was sure it'd be a keeper. He'd managed to avoid looking at pictures all week and had even come up with ways to avoid the subject altogether. Perhaps later, he mused, when he was in a more charitable mood, he'd muster up the politeness to say hello. For now, he didn't really care to see John licking some guy's uvula.

Having nothing else to do now that he wasn't going to performing, George decided to do the next best thing: clean his guitars. That always relaxed him. Well, that, and food. Deciding to combine the two, he headed to the kitchen, noticing - again, peripheral view only - that John had now resorted to tickling the other bloke. He had to be at least somewhat serious about him then if he got this giddy. Fully prepared to keep ignoring what would probably end in noisy sex, George kept walking until he heard John's lover laughing. It sounded awfully familiar but it couldn't be... Could it? Who else giggled that way? Turning on his heel, he peeked into the sitting room, half expecting to be wrong, but instantly recognising the face. "Paul...?"

Gasping for air and writhing underneath John's ruthless tickle attack, Paul froze mid-giggle. He knew that voice. He brusquely pushed John off, who had thankfully ceased his torture the moment he heard Paul's name getting mentioned anyway, and looked up at the skinny bloke in the... erm... unique outfit. It wasn't until he met the lad's eyes that he could be sure. "George?"

Ignoring the fact that John fell off the sofa due to him jumping up, Paul approached his old friend and enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug. "It really is you! God, I missed you so much..."

John was confused. One moment, he was in the middle of some wild foreplay, the next he nearly hit his head on the coffee table because his boyfriend felt the need to go and hug his flatmate. What the fuck was that all about? "Excuse me, can anyone tell me what's going on?" Do you two know each other or something?"

"You could say that," Paul said, beaming. He'd let go of George, who looked so much different from last time he saw him, and turned to John, leaving one arm loosely draped around George's shoulders. "We were best mates in grammar school, what with us being the biggest guitar nerds around. Joint at the hip for the better part of what, four years?"

"Closer to five, I think," George nodded, giving Paul a good once-over. He'd been terribly worried about him when he just disappeared and nobody seemed able or willing to tell him what happened. When Mike fell off the radar not much later, he'd feared the worst. "Right until you disappeared off the face of the earth. What happened? Colin just broke down crying whenever I mentioned you, and your family wasn't talking about it, either. I thought you were-..."

"Dead?"

"What else was I supposed to think when... You know." George shrugged. He felt a bit silly now, but it had all been so sudden and mysterious back then. The wildest rumours had been spread. He hadn't really believed it, but then he'd passed that shop and he'd seen that one piece of evidence which in his mind could only mean one thing. Speaking of which... "Hang on. Wait here."

Ignoring John and Paul's noises of surprise, he ran to his room where he impatiently kicked aside the piles of dirty laundry that littered the floor. He really had to clean up someday, he thought as he ploughed through discarded magazines, empty packs of guitar strings, and crumpled up crisp bags until he finally was able to reach under his bed. He pulled out the bulky black case and hurried back to the sitting room where his friends were still where he left them. "Got it!"

"Got what," John and Paul chorused in unison.

"I found this at a pawnshop. Reckoned you had to be dead for it to show up there so I bought it, thinking I might give it to Mike if I ever saw him again." George placed the case on the sofa and opened it, stepping back to show what was inside.

Paul couldn't believe it. It was impossible. Rory had told his uncles he'd smashed it up and used it as firewood when they'd shown up at his door to claim Paul's things. He'd been heartbroken, kept breaking down in tears when they finally broke the news. Not even the fact that Rory had gone to jail for what he'd done to him had eased the pain of losing his most prized possession. He had no idea it still existed but there was no doubt about it. Even the Garfield guitar strap Mike had given him for his fifteenth birthday was still attached. "No way. John, it's my old guitar! I never thought I'd see that again! Please tell me what it cost you, George, so I can pay you back."

"Have it, it's yours," he simply stated. Knowing his old mate was still alive was payment enough. Then again... "But I won't turn down a round of drinks. John, shouldn't you be getting to work anyway? Why don't we all go and catch up?"

"Sounds like a plan." Paul cast another loving glance at his guitar. It needed a lot of love to get back into shape, but he could do that. Smiling broadly, he closed the lid and faced John and George. "First round's on me."

"All rounds are on you, mate," George deadpanned. "I paid good money for that thing."

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, ladies, hold onto your insulin shots because come the end of this chapter, you're going to need them. But, first a bit of reality because love isn't always a bed of roses...
> 
> Another LONG chapter, but I don't think you'll mind very much.....

Fifteen months later

_~*~_

 

"Where are you going? We're not through talking yet!" Seeing Paul getting ready to depart pissed John off even more than their argument had. It was bad enough he was more or less being forced into something he didn't necessarily want by Paul, who clearly made up his mind about the whole idea. Being unable to finish the shouting match was even worse. Not that Paul had done too much shouting. If anything, he'd only grown quieter and calmer as the row progressed and by now, his face was a study in indifference. It was a bit scary, really, to see such an utter lack of emotion reflected back at him when John was just about ready to explode.

Paul could feel his feelings getting shut in. He hadn't felt like that in a very long time and he knew he'd pay for it, but there wasn't anything he could do to stop it. All he could do was try and not let it control him even more than it already did, so he went to put on his shoes and coat as planned. "This is our problem, John. No need for Mike to get caught in the middle. I've promised to help getting set up weeks ago, so that's what I'm going to do. You're welcome to come along. This disagreement will still be here when I get back."

With that, he picked up his guitar and left, hoping he'd feel better after doing the first sound check. He was going to be playing some songs at the opening of Mike's show, and he wasn't going to let John's moods fuck that up. Either he'd show up and play as well, or he wouldn't. Paul hoped he would, but either way, Mike's big day wasn't going to be wrecked if he could help it. Deep down, he wasn't too sure his relationship with John could be rescued just as easily. It seemed like an unfair outcome of such a massive leap of faith...

 

_~*~_

Hours had passed since Paul left and John wasn't happy at all. 'Love Hurts' was playing for the seventeenth time that evening and he was on his second tub of Ben & Jerry's when he heard the front door slamming shut. Half expecting a tearful Paul to throw himself into his arms, which he felt would only be right since he'd been so terribly wronged, John sat up straighter, trying to look like he wasn't falling apart.

Well, there was a McCartney storming into the sitting room, but it wasn't Paul, and there weren't any tears, either. In fact, Mike looked nothing short of murderous. "What are you doing here?" John reclined into his former state of misery, focusing on his rapidly melting comfort food. He was getting nauseous by now, but it was a matter of principle: Paul hurt his feelings, so he was going to eat Paul's ice cream. It seemed only reasonable.

Mike was bristling. He'd noticed something was wrong the instant Paul walked into that gallery and even though he refused to say what bothered him, it wasn't difficult to pinpoint the source of his stress since one person was so blatantly absent. "Would you care to explain why my brother is down with a migraine for the first time in four and a half years, Lennon?"

"Maybe you should ask him," John snapped, not about to let a kid read him the riot act. "I'm not the one being a fucking bellend, am I? Sending his baby brother to fight his battles for him, what a joke."

If Mikes hackles hadn't already been raised, they have then. What the hell was John thinking? Not much, apparently, apart from how whatever had happened was everyone's fault but his. Which, basically, was what any row between him and Paul came down to. "Fuck off, John. Paul doesn't even know I'm here. I haven't a clue what you're fighting about but I reckon it's a safe bet that you've gone off the deep end again. What is it this time? Wouldn't let you get twelve cats? Got too matey with a colleague for your liking? Bought the wrong toothpaste? Tell me, John, what terrible crime he's guilty of this time."

Alright, so maybe he had picked some petty fights. But this was different. Not the idea itself, but how it had sounded like a done deal. John didn't like being put on the spot and Paul had been awfully matter-of-fact about this. "Not that it's any of your business, but he plans to buy this flat."

Aha. So, he'd raised the issue, then. Paul had received a letter addressed to the both of them, so they'd read it together. At first, Paul had blanched at the news that the owner was selling the flat and that they could either buy it or move out by 31 December, which was awfully soon. It wasn't Mike's problem anymore, so it hadn't upset him terribly but he knew Paul had taken it hard. That is until he saw it was a great opportunity to solidify his relationship with John. Mike had wondered how long it would take Paul to broach the subject. "I know, and he should. So what's the problem?"

"It's a one-hour commute from my job, that's the fucking problem!"

"Alright, let me get this straight. You basically moved in here on day one and never once complained about the distance. You cancelled your flat, even after Paul suggested you keep it so you'd have somewhere to sleep if you were too tired or missed the last bus. Am I right so far?" Seriously, what was John's problem? Paul hadn't wanted John to burn too many bridges out of fear that one day, John might look back and feel like he'd been the only one making sacrifices. John had dismissed those concerns, but now it seemed like Paul had been right to worry. "You fancied the idea of paying less rent to live in a bigger flat with a better view. So, none of that was ever a problem but now that Paul can buy this place and cut living expenses even further, suddenly you're kicking up a fuss? Am I right to guess that's what happened?"

"Well..."

Mike let out a deep sigh and sank down next to John. He seemed to be getting through to that thick skull, but he shouldn't even have to. Why couldn't John think of these things by himself? He was old enough to think and behave like an adult, wasn't he? Of course, Paul had his moments, too. He'd acted like a petulant child as well, even before he'd been fully at the mercy of that migraine. "What did you say to him, John?"

By now, John had lost all interest in his half-eaten tub of Chocolate Fudge Brownie and listlessly surrendered it to Mike. "I may have suggested this was HIS place..."

"As opposed to yours and his together?" Mike groaned loudly. Now it all made sense. "No wonder he's upset! Would you mind sticking your head out the door and telling me what it says on the name tag?"

"I know what it says," John scowled. He didn't wish to remember how adorably shy Paul had been when he showed him the sign that said 'J. Lennon & P. McCartney,' or how he himself had welled up at the simple gesture that had such a profound meaning.

"Then why would you say that to him when you know it isn't true? Paul wants this to be your home, John. You should've seen how excited he was about the idea of having both your names on the contract. After all that he's been through, I didn't think he'd ever take that step but he loves you enough to make himself vulnerable again, hasn't that sunk in yet?"

"Yeah, but he practically rammed it down my throat." John was starting to question his own motives now. He did want a commitment, very much so. That wasn't the issue. Neither was the distance; that was just an easy excuse. What it boiled down to, he supposed, was the finality of Paul's announcement. It hadn't even really been a question. Paul had been so full of the idea, he hadn't given John much room for input. "You know how he gets when he's got his mind set on something. I didn't like being manhandled into something like that."

"Fair enough, John. You've got a valid point." Mike knew very well how Paul could steamroll people once he had a plan. The moment he had a goal, those shutters went on and he'd keep charging forward, blind and deaf to what other people had to say. It was one of Paul's worst traits, and John had every right to feel overwhelmed by that. Far was it from Mike to say otherwise. The only difference was that, unlike John, apparently, he understood why Paul was so passionate about this particular project.

"I think you're missing a very important point, though. This isn't just another one of his crazy schemes, John. I shouldn't have to tell you because you know all of this, but you seem to need the reminder." Mike, in need of some encouragement, grabbed the ice cream and stuffed a few spoonfuls into his mouth before continuing.  
"This is where Paul reclaimed his independence and self-worth. The stories these walls could tell about the difficult times he survived here, John... Not just the healing he had to do, either. He nearly got kicked out of uni because he kept falling asleep in class after staying up all night just to make sure I didn't sneak out to get drunk." Mike smothered the lump in his throat by scooping up the last of the melted ice cream. "I'm not saying Paul is a saint. Christ knows how many times I've wanted to strangle him. But you know as well as I do how much this place means to him."

"Alright, fine. But why isn't he telling me that, Mike?"

"He would if he could. John, I wasn't joking about that migraine. It's a stress thing. When Paul's emotions reach a certain point, his mind locks them in and he can't express them anymore. You can see it happening: his eyes just go dead. Eerie, that is." Mike sat forward and rubbed his face with both palms. In that moment, he was so very much like Paul, John mused as he watched him, listening intently. This was new information. He didn't think there was any left after the many hours they'd spent talking. Mike wasn't wrong, though. John had seen the fire go out in the eyes that were always so expressive and it had, indeed, been a bit scary. Apparently, that was a thing. Or had been, in any case.

"It started after mum died and by the time he left Rory, he had migraines at least once a week. He had a few when I was struggling to stay sober, but then they just went away. Until today." Mike shook his head. He'd hoped never to see his brother in that much discomfort again. There was so little anyone could do to help. Those attacks nearly always passed by next morning but they were clearly exhausting to endure, especially for someone like Paul, who hated throwing up. "I couldn't let him go home like that, John. He barely made it to my place as it was. He's asleep now and he should be fine in the morning, but I couldn't allow him to get on a bus for nearly an hour. Knowing you, you probably would've thought he was looking for pity and ripped into him some more. No offence, mate."

"No, you're right. I probably would have," John confessed, feeling like a right arse. "Who's with him? Should I come back with you?"

Mike considered it but thought better of it. "George is babysitting so I better leave soon or my house will be in ruins. Paul's better off left alone, though. His senses can't handle much right now. Perhaps you should use the time to concentrate on how to fix this, especially if you plan on going through with what we discussed. Are you?"

"Do you reckon I should?" John had worked awfully hard to make his surprise as perfect as possible. He'd tracked down several people - he'd had help but it was his idea - and he'd practised endlessly to perfect his little moment in the spotlights. Now, he wasn't so sure he should get on with it. Would Paul be open to his idea, considering what happened?

"I definitely think you should do it. I'm hoping you will. But you need to apologise first, John, and you better make sure he believes you. And for fuck's sake," he grinned, pushing himself up off the sofa, "don't be so quick to stick your head up your own arse from now on or you'll ruin everything."

John grinned sheepishly, feeling stupid, but excited at the same time. "Yeah, I guess. I'm sorry."

"Don't tell me, tell him. Tomorrow. Say good night, Johnny."

Following Mike to the door, John felt the first real smile in several hours tugging at his lips. "Good night, Johnny."

 

_~*~_

 

Mike had really outdone himself. Ever since he first picked up a camera, a decade ago, he'd shown a unique eye for composition, angles, and lighting. Where most people saw a shadow, Mike saw the opportunity to turn a simple portrait into something far more captivating. Often, the observer's eyes would be drawn to one element, only to discover there was a person in the photo as well, or a little joke. Paul had always been his brother's biggest fan, even if it sometimes got tedious to be dragged into the shot or simply expected to model for Mike.

When Mike had explained his ideas for his graduation project, over a year earlier, Paul had been equal parts surprised, honoured, and sceptical. He hadn't expected at all that the image of him and John kipping on the sofa would spark such an ambitious plan into existence, but he'd felt humbled to have been the inspiration for what would be one of the most important decisions in Mike's career. He'd also been wondering if it was going to stand out enough to give him a passing grade, though. With that in mind, he and John had agreed to do a few sessions until Mike felt he had the right shot. From there on, all they could do was wait and see.

He had to confess he had not expected it to get this big. And yet, there he was, a few months after Mike's graduation project had proven a smashing success. It was obvious to see he was going to be big, or he wouldn't be opening his first big exposition today.

Paul had just stopped at his favourite portrait of the exposition. From afar, it looked like a heart shape against a light background. Coming closer, the composition became a beautiful portrait of five generations of women. A young mother and her great-grandmother were sat in the foreground, holding a newborn baby girl, whilst the mother and grandmother were standing behind them, forming the link between the oldest and youngest generations. Paul loved the contrast of the old, wrinkled hands against the fuzzy hair on the baby's head, and the loving way the young woman's hand partially covered the old lady's. Mike had caught a deeply moving glance between the two women. It was a circle, in the way they were all touching each other. He supposed that's why the photo was titled 'Circle Of Love', which Paul thought was a clever play on the phrase 'circle of life', which also would have fit.

"Paul?" The moment he spoke his name, John could see the tension rising in Paul's shoulders. Not just that, his entire aura seemed to change. "Relax, babe. I don't want you to get sick again. I'm not here to fight."

"What do you want from me, John?" Paul didn't want to sound defeated, but he was knackered from the night before, and he just didn't have the energy or willpower to go it another round. If John didn't feel ready for that kind of commitment, then they'd have to find some other way to make it work, or maybe they would be better off taking a step back. Either way, he wasn't going to press the issue anymore. With that in mind, he turned to face John who, to his surprise, looked as wrecked as he himself felt. He was smiling, though, and he was holding out a single red rose. He had to be very serious about something, then. It wasn't often that either of them brought the other flowers.

It felt good to see Paul not just accepting the peace offering but to notice him automatically raising it so he could smell its scent. Paul always smelt flowers, it was one of the many things John loved about him. "Sorry, they didn't have any scented ones. Can we talk?"

 

 _~*~_

 

As he climbed up onto the small, improvised stage, Paul felt nervous. He'd never done a speech before, not like this anyway. It helped to see so many people he loved standing around him, including some faces he hadn't seen in ages. How John had found Colin and his husband, let alone convinced them to come, he didn't know. But apologising for what he'd done and catching up felt great. Where he'd conjured that lady who'd helped him after Rory kicked the shit out of him was an even bigger riddle, yet it was definitely her, and she seemed happy to know he was alright. And, of course, his dad was there. Standing in the back, and probably there more for Mike's sake than his, but still: he was there, surrounded by dozens of people, most of whom Paul knew and loved. So, he cleared his throat and launched into his talk.

"Ten years ago today, my brother and I lost our mother, whose life motto was 'love wins'. Whenever Michael and I would fight, she'd tell us being angry and hateful never solved any problems, only love and respect could accomplish that. It was exactly that mindset that allowed me to feel safe enough to come out at a very early age. True to form, she accepted my sexuality without question, saying: all forms of love may not be identical, but they are equal and deserve equal respect. Even though she was taken from us at much too young an age, her lessons remained with us always. We forgot sometimes, but whenever we needed those words of wisdom the most, they'd be there to see us through our darkest days."

He swallowed thickly, willing himself not to tear up before continuing. "Today, our mother's lessons are more important than ever. In a world that's torn apart by hate, more and more people are starting to see that love really is the only answer and the only way forward. This sentiment, combined with our mother's motto, is the reason we are all here today." Paul paused a moment, waiting for the affirmative noises to die down.

"What started as a graduation project, has grown into what you see around you: a celebration of love in its many shapes and forms. As a man in a gay relationship, it was my honour to be amongst the first to be photographed for this project. As the artist's brother, it is an even greater honour to address you today at the opening of this wonderful exhibit. Our mother would have been incredibly proud of the beautiful way in which Michael has brought her motto to life."

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will be as moved as I am, and I hope you will help us spread the message that whatever else happens, love wins. Now, with that out of the way, please join me in welcoming to this stage the man of the hour: the creative genius who brings you this exhibit, my baby brother, Peter Michael McCartney." As the audience broke out in applause, a beaming Mike stepped onto the platform where Paul hugged him tightly before taking his place between John and George. He'd said his piece, had remembered most of what he'd written down, and was now ready for a drink.

"Thank you, Paul. I'll pay you after everyone's left," Mike joked, drawing a raucous bout of laughter from the crowd. "What can I tell you after such a lovely speech? That's older siblings for you: they always have to hog the limelight. But all jokes aside, I couldn't have said it better myself. I came up with the idea for this project when Paul first got together with his partner John. They both entered the relationship with a lot of emotional baggage and had their ups and downs, but they made it work because whatever else they had going on, they never lost sight of what brought them together: love." Now it was Mike's turn to pause, as people were 'aww'-ing and humming left and right.

"My initial idea was to put a human face on something that's still misunderstood by many people: homosexuality. I hoped that by showing gay and lesbian couples from all walks of life, people would be better able to relate to and accept same-sex couples. Encouraged by the positive response 'Love Wins' received, I decided to take it one step further and included everyone because after all, love comes in countless forms. Over the past months, I have dedicated myself to capturing the love between lovers, generations, siblings, ethnicities, classes, and many others. I have been fortunate enough to witness young love, lost love, old love, and everything in between. Even now, there is still uncharted territory for me to discover but hopefully, you will leave this place with love in your heart and a desire to share that love with the world around you."

Another round of applause started, but it died down just as quickly when Mike raised his hands. "Normally, this would be when the exhibit is officially opened but before we get to that, there is one other person who would like to say a few words. John, the stage is all yours."

Feeling the blood rise to his face, John stepped forward. He'd practised enough to make it work, but he was nervous as hell. "Thank you, brother Michael. Alright, I've seen you all ogling the cocktails and snacks so I'll keep this short and sweet so you can move onto more interesting things." The joke went down well, and John seized the opportunity to strap on his guitar. He noticed Paul's eyebrows going up. Clearly, his surprise hadn't been ruined yet.

"I've written down a big speech but I'm nervous as fuck so I'm just going to do my thing and let you figure out what it means." With that, he stepped up to the microphone and started to play. A bit wobbly at first, and he heard a few bum notes as he started to sing, but once he locked eyes with Paul, everyone else disappeared and it seemed to all fall into place as he sang:

_I bless the day I found you,_   
_I want to stay around you,_   
_And so I beg you,_   
_Let it be me._

_Don't take this heaven from one,_   
_If you must cling to someone,_   
_Now and forever,_   
_Let it be me._

_Each time we meet, love,_   
_I find complete love._   
_Without your sweet love,_   
_What would life be?_

_So, never leave me lonely,_   
_Tell me you love me only,_   
_And that you'll always,_   
_Let it be me._

As he repeated the last verse and chorus, John stepped off the platform until he was stood in front of Paul who was clearly beginning to catch on. John could see how, ever so slowly, Paul's eyes were starting to shine with unshed tears but then, he was on the verge of breaking down too.

After he sang the final words, he found the rings which had been burning a hole in his pocket all day and grabbed Paul's hands. John desperately hoped he'd made the right choice, that the silver bands with the little row of sapphires in all colours of the rainbow weren't too flashy. But most of all, he hoped he wouldn't be turned down as he completely forgot all the beautiful words he had prepared and simply asked, "Will you marry me?"

 

\---------- 

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/OCB19iD)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it finally is. The last chapter: exactly one month after the first was posted. I hope you'll enjoy this! Thank you for all of your wonderful comments. You've been great!

  
Liverpool Pride - 29 July 2017

_~*~_

Someday soon, John thought, he'd have no choice but to commit homicide. And he'd get away with it too because clearly, not a single judge in the world would blame him for strangling Mike Mac with the power cord of the hoover the insufferable git just plugged in.

After some idle noise, which was so annoying it made John wonder why they'd gotten one of those bagless cyclone things in the first place, the steady back and forth of someone hoovering the downstairs area could be heard. John groaned loudly, tried to block out the sound of someone's compulsive need to start cleaning at an ungodly hour by covering his head with his pillow and failed. Too much noise, not enough pillow. Life was unfair.

John sighed in defeat as he extracted his face from the warm skin of the bloke snoring softly in his arms - how could that git sleep through so much noise anyway? - and released Paul's toned frame to grab his phone. He wasn't wearing his contacts yet and would be damned if he put on his glasses so John held the thing about an inch from his nose and squinted hard, eventually reaching the conclusion that the numbers on the home screen, which still featured Paul's double 'up yours' gesture, read 8:57. His first instinct was to yell, but he stopped himself at the last moment because even though they hadn't gone to sleep until sometime after two, his alarm was due to go off in three minutes anyway. John never set an alarm on Saturday but he had a very good reason this time, and it instantly made him smile.

It was his wedding day.

"Get up," he finally murmured at the comatose figure to his left. If John was to be marrying in several hours' time, then the person he was going to get married to had better be awake and present too. When Paul refused to move, John spurred him on by giving him a good, firm slap on his bare arse. That, at least, elicited a response, even if it was little more than a vague moan which brought back fond memories of the previous night. "Oi, Sleeping Beauty! Wake up, you lazy cunt."

The black mop of hair shifted, and a pair of bleary hazel eyes blinked slowly at John. "What did you just call me?"

"Erm... Sleeping Beauty?"

Well, that one was new. Not particularly original, but new. It was surprising, really, that it had taken John two years to use it, given how he was always raving about Paul's looks. "Well I'm awake now, aren't I? Might I suggest you hold off on the abuse until after we're married, John? More difficult for you to get rid of me that way."

John saw the cheeky wink and snorted loudly. It felt good to know Paul had dealt with his past to the point of being able to joke about it. Nothing proved the level of mutual trust they had more than that. "Aye, good point. Remind me to smack you about some more tonight or something, right? Give us a kiss?"

"You're not supposed to kiss the bride before the wedding, you know," Paul chuckled whilst John puckered his lips in the silliest way imaginable. "It's bad luck."

"Good thing you're not my bride then, right?"

Trying to push John off him, Paul only barely kept himself from squealing like a little girl but then he did nearly fall off the bed due to being tickled on that one spot just below his ribs where he was most ticklish. "That's not what you've been saying for... How long has it been since you asked me?" He decidedly grabbed John's wrists and kept them at a safe distance. No more ticking as far as he was concerned. Well, unless he was the one doing it to John...

"Nine months," John pouted. "But fine, don't kiss me. Your breath stinks anyway."

"So does yours. Never stopped us before, has it?" He frowned at the incessant noise that he'd noticed before, but hadn't really paid much mind. It sounded like... "Bloody hell, why is Mike hoovering?"

John shrugged, no longer interested in whatever Mike was doing. "Don't ask me, he's your brother. Are you showering first, or shall I?"

"Nah, I'll go. Try to catch a few more winks, if you think you can manage it."

"I reckon not," John sighed, flopping back down onto the bed. Well, he might if he tried. Then again, he probably wouldn't. Not with the sight of Paul sashaying starkers through the bedroom, and the things that... erm.... stirred up. Which was quite miraculous, really. John hadn't thought he could get it up at all after three hours of the world's best slow sex and just as many orgasms.

They'd started doing that some time ago, and it had done more for John's sanity than years of therapy. Getting out of his head and completely in touch with his senses had calmed him down tremendously. They hadn't even had a row in nearly six months because somehow any tension between them just evaporated when they made love like that. Paul had suggested it one day, after having read about it on some forum or something. John didn't remember exactly. Didn't care to, either.

It had taken some practice to get away from the idea of getting inside each other and having a fast orgasm. But once they had, they soon learnt that taking their time exploring, teasing, touching, and just being in touch with each other was endlessly more fulfilling. John couldn't speak for Paul, but he'd never had better sex and deeper climaxes than when they did it like that. What's more, neither of them needed to cool down after they came like they did with normal sex. For some reason, it was possible to just keep going and who could mind that? Knowing he'd have the rest of his life to enjoy it was almost too good to be true and yet, it was.

Whilst Paul merrily sang in the shower - John felt it wiser not to go in after him, or they'd be stuck in there for hours - he got up and looked at their tuxedos for, oh, maybe the eight billionth time since they got them. Handmade, custom designed they were, and a bloody good job good old Eileen had done of it, too.

John liked the seventy-something lady who also made Marvin's Pride costumes (he was going as Ruby Dee this year) and who had such a thick Scouse accent, he and Paul barely understood her half the time. When they did, they were in stitches. If he hadn't been gay, and if she hadn't been old enough to be his gran, John might've asked her to marry him. She had been a young girl in the fifties and sixties, so she hadn't even needed the pictures they'd brought along for reference.

John gently ran his hands over the fabric of his jacket. The rich purple fabric perfectly matched the vibrant blue of Paul's. Both shades were borrowed from the same bird: peacocks. Before they'd paid a visit to Eileen's studio, neither knew exactly what they wanted but once the old lady pointed at a stunning photo on the wall and said those colours would look great on them, they'd nearly instantly liked the colour palette, especially after a quick sketch had shown them how it might look.

The blue of Paul's suit was the same as the bird's head, whereas the purple John had chosen came from the wings and the eyes in the train, which was also what the subtle pattern that was woven into the slightly shiny fabric resembled. Just a bit, but still. The narrow, black velvet lapels and the different accessories such as cummerbunds and pointed bow ties really made the suits undeniably 'late fifties to early sixties' like they asked, but not obnoxiously so.

"Eileen really did a great job, didn't she," John said when Paul, clad in nought but a towel walked back into the room. "We should send her some flowers or something."

"Good idea. I'll get right on it." A slightly wet towel landed on his head and John was just quick enough to catch a glimpse of the arse he adored before it disappeared into a pair of underpants and a dressing gown. They wouldn't get properly dressed until it was getting time to go. "Your turn, Johnny boy. Go get washed, or I might say 'I don't', you know."

"You should. Then maybe Eileen will have pity and marry me instead," John cackled, though he decided to go have a wash anyway. Better safe than sorry...

_~*~_

"Go on, lads, just one more. This is the money shot; I just know it."

As if on cue, John and Paul breathed a collective sigh of relief. They'd only been at it for what; three hours? More? In any case, they were at the third - and supposedly last - location now: at the docks, with the Mersey and Vic's Corvette as their props for the scene. They could see the festivities slowly gaining momentum from where they were, but they were far enough from it to have some peace. That, obviously, was going to change soon.

Earlier, they'd invaded one of the many parks in Liverpool, which was the first and probably the most romantic part of the shoot. Not the most romantic moment of the day, mind you. That would've been right before they got picked up by Victor and Mike - Marvin would join them later - when John had added the final touch to both of their suits: a yellow rose with red-edged petals which smelt very strongly: the same Paul had worn on that fateful date two years earlier. It was his surprise for Paul, who in all his eye for detail had not thought of boutonnières. It was a sweet little moment: the calm before the storm.

After the park, which thanks to Mike's foresight had been nice and quiet, they'd popped into Petticoats to be greeted by Marv. Or, more specifically, Ruby, because he'd already gotten into costume. Dorothy would make a comeback sometime, they were assured. Too nervous to eat much, John and Paul had barely touched their food, but they'd very much enjoyed posing for photos there. Petticoats had long since evolved from John's place of work to a home away from home, what with Paul spending so much time there as well. On weekends, he'd come into work with John and during the school holidays, they'd hang out there nearly every day. Marv and Vic had become two of their closest friends, so it was only logical they'd play such a big role on this special day.

"We've created a monster," Paul chuckled under his breath as he obediently followed Mike's instructions for what seemed like the millionth time that day. Not a bad exercise in patience, considering how long the day would be. They hadn't even reached the marrying bit yet. Soon, though. Very soon, he thought as he cheekily nuzzled John's ear. He wasn't supposed to, apparently, but since this was the third photo location and he'd been very compliant thus far, he felt entitled to. John seemed to feel the same way, seeing as how he leant back into Paul's chest and hummed softly.

"I'm beginning to regret asking him to do this wedding shoot," John grinned back, tightening his grip on Paul's hand. He didn't really mean it, and he knew Paul didn't, either. Who else were they going to trust with this? "At this rate, we'll never get married."

"Aye, but we'll have the photos to show everyone when we tell them about that time we nearly did." Paul was getting a bit giggly now. Maybe the way John was ever so subtly pressing his bottom against his thigh had something to do with that. Maybe, it was just because they hadn't had lunch yet.

Not a second later, a beaming Mike walked back towards them, glancing at the little screen on the back of his camera. "Told you I only needed one more shot. That was the one, I think."

"Was it?" Raising his eyebrows at Paul, John wondered if he'd missed something. "We weren't even paying attention."

"Exactly. I've been waiting for you to go off into your own little bubble. Let's eat, I'm starving," Mike chuckled. If only he'd said that earlier, Paul thought. They could've stayed in bed two hours longer if all they had to do was not do as they were told... He slowly shook his head at John, who seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"You're starving? You had a dirty big lunch an hour ago, son," John muttered as he climbed back into the car. "Don't think we didn't notice you polishing off our plates as well."

"Waste not, want not. Isn't that what dad always says, Paul?"

Paul, who had just plopped down next to John - or rather nearly on top of him though he didn't seem to mind much - glowered at his sibling, having long since abandoned the subject. "Hey, leave me out of it."

"Yeah, Michael, stop bothering your brother or he might not say 'I do'." John scooted over a bit, having nearly been crushed by Paul, but staying near enough to hold hands or - as he probably would do soon enough - wrap an arm around his shoulders. Just as Mike and Victor were getting in the front seat, John leant in for a kiss, finding that Paul was more than willing to oblige.

"Speaking of which, it might be best if we get going." He hadn't even finished saying it before Vic turned on the engine. He carefully turned the car around and headed for the nearby road, which would lead them to another part of the docks where the wedding venue was located. Pier Head was right between the two locations, and it was filling up fast, that much they could see. "It'll be murder getting through that crowd."

"Good idea, Vic." John stared at Paul, who was looking every bit as excited and nervous as he was. He cast a quick glance at Paul's watch. Just an hour to go, and they'd be married. He'd predicted it on the first night they met, two years earlier, and the time had finally come. John smiled nervously and chuckled, 'here we go, Betsy. Let's get you hitched."

_~*~_

"McCannon."

John tried to hold it in, he truly did, but he ended up laughing so hard he nearly wet himself anyway. It wouldn't have been so bad if Paul's infectious giggle made him break down all over again just when he thought he'd gotten over it. And the worst part of it was: the two of them had come up with much more ridiculous ideas for a shared surname than that. It had started out as a serious endeavour, and now it was mostly a matter of who could think of the worst one.  
"I hate to admit it, son, but as great a porn name that is," he finally hiccuped, "neither of us qualifies for the 'cannon' category."

"Perhaps not," Paul murmured in his best bedroom voice which just about made John collapse into peals of laughter again, "but that doesn't stop us from shooting, does it?"

"You won't get any argument from me on that one." He allowed his eyes to roam across Paul's body for a bit. He'd had his sunburn a week ago in Amsterdam when they'd spent the day relaxing near water. The soft breeze had tricked them into thinking it was cooler than it actually was, and Paul specifically had suffered from it. John would slather on his SPF50 anyway, to protect his tattoos, so he'd only been mildly affected.

The result was that he was now still the obvious Englishman in the mass of people, what with his legs and stomach being printer paper white. Paul, however, had been ill for a day - luckily, he'd been right as rain in time for the Canal Pride, which was what John had wanted to see most - but was rewarded for it with a gorgeous golden tan.

There was just one downside to that, apart from making John seem even paler than he was: the freckles John liked so much weren't visible anymore. The ones on his shoulders were dark enough to stand out, but those cute ones on Paul's nose and around his eyes had disappeared into his tan. Luckily, the many little moles were still there to play connect-the-dots... As he lazily raised his hand to do just that, John murmured, "wanna go back to the hotel and do some more target practice?"

It was a tempting offer. It really was. But, it was only their first day in Paris and Paul loved where they were: flat on their backs on one of the many lawns of Parc Champs de Mars, looking up at the Eiffel Tower. They'd already been up there, walking around the different levels, taking pictures, and enjoying a late and overpriced lunch of toasties - which they called 'Croque Monsieur' here, and some equally expensive drinks. At the rate they were going, they'd be begging their family and friends for donations by day three of the eight days they were supposed to stay in the city of love.

Paul let go of the idea of another long make-out session. It was far too hot for it now, anyway. He didn't mind getting sweaty, but these temperatures were enough for his Northern constitution could handle without adding the extra exertion. Later, when it cooled down a bit, it'd be perfect for it... "Let's hang out here a bit more. I wouldn't say no to a good snog, though..."

"I bet you wouldn't, McRandy..." Without much ado, John rolled closer to Paul so he was leaning half over him and claimed his mouth in a deep, sensual kiss. He was breaking out in sweat just from that, but the feeling of Paul's arms coming up to circle his back was enough to live with a bit of leakage from his pores. More or less aware of the fact that they were in a public place, John broke the kiss after a few long moments and flopped back onto the grass next to Paul, grabbing his hand to keep the connection. "Actually, that's not a bad one."

"I thought we wouldn't do the porn name thing?"

He laughed happily, turning his head for a quick, chaste peck on the lips. How he loved that gorgeous man and his quirky sense of humour. "It's not a porn name if it's true, son."

"Well if I'm randy," Paul chuckled, "then what are you?"

"Thirsty. Bloody parched, is what I am," John grumbled, noticing the dryness in his throat. "I'm going to go get a drink or something. Maybe ice cream. You want something?"

Groaning, Paul sat up and dug through his rucksack. His old one, which he'd gotten from his mum, had finally given up the good fight. He still had it, but he used the one John had gotten him for his birthday now. He pulled out a blue bill, which turned out to be twenty Euros. Probably a bit too much, but he seemed to be out of the smaller ones. "Sure, two scoops if you're going for ice cream. Oh, get some of those bottles of mineral water too. Not the Evian, it tastes soapy."

"Two scoops, no Evian. Got it. Anything else, Your Highness?"

"No, that'll be all, Jeeves." Chuckling at John's stiff little bow, Paul rolled onto his stomach and pulled out his phone. There was a WiFi hotspot nearby and he wanted to make good use of it. John had convinced him to use Facebook more, so he posted one of the photos looking up at the Eiffel Tower and the candid picture he'd taken when John had dozed off for a few minutes, and checked in at the park. He even selected a mood: feeling in love. His husband would be proud. Then, Paul opened his Mail app. He expected an email from Mike, who'd been giving updates - including pictures - of how Janeway was doing.

Apparently, she missed them, and she'd knocked over another bag of flour - which was why Mike had been hoovering at such an ungodly hour - but who could blame her? John and Paul had admitted defeat and gotten some cooking lessons from Ringo, but Mike was still the best cook. Paul had given up on baking after breaking a molar on one of his rock-hard chocolate biscuits, so Janeway wasn't used to seeing fancy things like flour anymore.

Maybe ice cream wasn't the best idea. It was so fucking hot, and it was a five-minute walk back to where he'd left Paul. By the time John spotted him, engrossed in something on his phone, there was a steady drip-drip-drip of sticky no-longer-ice cream down his hands. He licked it off as fast as he could catch it, but it was looking rather pathetic by now.

Finally, John crashed down next to Paul, careful not to land on the small bottles he'd stuffed into the pockets of his shorts. He rid himself of his flip flops and offered Paul one of the water bottles.

"Here's your not Evian," he grinned, offering Paul a bottle of Vittel. They'd had it at the station when they first got off the Thalys from Amsterdam, and Paul seemed to like it. Plus, it was a lot less expensive than Perrier. "Janeway doing alright, then?"

"Yeah, she's fine. Look." A very cute picture of a very happy calico, stretched out in the sun filled the screen and drew identical 'aaah's' from her personnel. "He sent us something else as well: a web page he made for us. I haven't looked yet. This hotspot is pretty good, I think I can open it. Wanna watch?"

John nodded, too busy rescuing his ice cream to give an audible reply. He moved to sit behind Paul, his legs on either side of him, so he could peek over his shoulder (and nuzzle or kiss his neck and ear if the mood struck him) and lazily draped his free arm around Paul's waist for good measure. If anyone had a problem with that, hr reckoned, they could look the other way.

As it turned out, Mike had used some of his special software to build a mini site with an interactive photo album. It had the wedding photos in it, and apparently, he was also adding their social media updates. Or maybe there was an app for that. John had no idea, he still feared Paul's Mac and missed his old Windows XP computer which had died a year earlier. It was incredible, and everyone who responded - because that was possible too somehow - seemed to agree. He pointed at the photo of their first dance. "Tell Mike to text me that one. I want it for my lock screen."

"You could text him yourself, you know," Paul joked, gently elbowing John in the ribs. He'd nearly finished his ice cream, which was now completely liquid and was aching to empty the bottle of Vittel in one fell swoop. "I think I'll go for that last photo Mike took at the docks. You know, the one he said he'd been waiting for. You look so happy in that."

"Well I was happy, wasn't I." Finished with his ice cream, John resorted to kissing Paul's neck. "Still am, actually."

Paul smiled. Yeah, he was happy too. Not so much about the WiFi anymore, though. It was getting patchy, so he saved the page for later. That's when he noticed something. "Hey John, look at this."

"Looks good, doesn't it?" John had been thinking about it. It didn't feel entirely right to him, he somehow felt that maybe it should be reversed for him, or even for both of them. But seeing it like that did something. The look Paul gave him said it all: that's the one. No more discussion. And also: let's do something fun to mark the occasion. "Let's go back to the hotel, shall we, mister Lennon-McCartney?"

Paul nodded happily. "I like the sound of that."

_~*~_

En ze leefden nog lang en gelukkig....


End file.
